A Rohan Conspiracy
by sg1scribe
Summary: There are always those who plot and scheme to take that which is not rightfully theirs, and not everyone in Rohan celebrated when Eomer became king.
1. Default Chapter

_Several people have complained that, I have only posted one chapter stories. Well, this is for all of you who wanted something longer. However, be warned, I tend to write dark stories when I write a longer length._

**Rohan Conspiracy**

"I will have to speak to my sister," Eomer said wearily. "Explain the situation to her. I'm sure she'll understand."  
  
"I'm sure she will, my Lord King." Elfhelm chuckled softly. "But promise you'll take a bodyguard of at least ten of our best men with you. Just to be on the safe side."  
  
Eomer groaned. "What choice do I have? Either we postpone her wedding or we face the mockery of Gondor's nobles."  
  
"Come, my Lord. I am sure they will understand. Even in Gondor, fresh meat is not readily available. It will take at least two breeding seasons to replenish the herds. As for your lady sister, I think perhaps she is more interested in what will be between the sheets of her bed on her wedding night rather than what is on her plate at the wedding breakfast."  
  
"Elfhelm!"  
  
"My apologies."  
  
Eomer shook his head. "No, you are right. Eowyn's eagerness to be wed cannot be denied. I fear I would need an entire eorod to protect me if I were to attempt to keep her from Faramir any longer." He scowled at the scrolls listing Rohan's supplies one more time. When he looked up he found Ceorl, the youngest and newest of his riders, watching him expectantly.  
  
The young man moistened his lips nervously. "My Lord King, if I may be so bold, perhaps there is another solution to your dilemma."  
  
"Speak," he said impatiently, still unused to people waiting for his permission to offer an opinion.  
  
"May I suggest a hunt?" Ceorl inclined his head as though fearing his suggestion would incur the king's wrath.  
  
"A hunt?" Eomer's mood immediately lightened at the prospect of escaping Meduseld. The walls of the golden hall had begun to feel like a prison over recent days, and he longed to feel the wind on his face as he galloped Firefoot across the plains.  
  
Ceorl met his gaze. "I have heard rumours that there is a herd of deer roaming in the woods to the north. A hunt would give your riders some much needed exercise as well as provide an opportunity to provision a feast for your sister's wedding."  
  
"An excellent idea," Eomer declared, shoving the scrolls to one side. "We'll leave in the morning."

--------------------------------  
  
"Eomer, is this wise?" Elfhelm asked him for the third time at dinner. He knew he was fretting like an old woman, but there was an unease in his heart that refused to move no matter how he tried to reassure himself. "Rohan cannot afford to lose her king to the tusks of a wild boar any more than we could afford to lose you to a pack of filthy orcs."  
  
"Theoden regularly rode with the hunt," Eomer replied, stabbing at a piece of cheese. "And besides, it is deer that we are after, although I admit a wild boar would make an excellent centre piece for the bridal table. Sadly I fear such beasts may no longer be found in Rohan."  
  
Elfhelm emptied his tankard and beckoned for it to be refilled. "Promise me you'll be careful."  
  
Eomer snorted. "The war is over, my friend. We do not need to fear for our lives every time we set foot beyond the Great Hall."  
  
"I wouldn't be so sure of that, sire. Not all cheered when the great eye fell. And I fear many of Sauron's minions would still seek to bring harm to both Rohan and Gondor."  
  
Amusement tugged at the king's lips. "And you would count deer amongst these evil enemies of Rohan?"  
  
Elfhelm accepted the teasing with grace, but his gaze moved to Ceorl. "Tell me something, how does he know there deer to the north?"  
  
Eomer shrugged. "He said it was but a rumour."  
  
"One he may have started himself." He looked down at his plate, suddenly preferring that the king should not read his emotions. Eomer knew him too well though.  
  
"You don't like him, do you?"  
  
"I don't trust strangers, Eomer. Especially one who seems to have bewitched you with his fine words."  
  
"Bewitched me!" That made Eomer laugh raucously.  
  
"Aye, bewitched," Elfhelm said, no longer finding humour in the situation. "We know naught of him or his family, and yet you invite him into the Golden Hall and treat him as kin."  
  
"Would you have me do otherwise? You know as well as I do the lad was found badly injured and now has no memory of where he came from."  
  
"Do you not think it odd that he claims no memory of kin or friends, yet has intelligence enough to work his way into the confidence of the king."  
  
"If I didn't know you better, Elfhelm, I would think you were jealous of young Ceorl. Now enough with your doomsaying. Tomorrow we will hunt deer and perhaps boar. And when the Gondorian nobles come to Rohan we will give them such a feast they will wish that all their men were able to wed our women."  
  
"Very well, my Lord King." Elfhelm reached for his tankard and tilted it in toast. "To your sister's happiness." He drank deeply, wishing the ale would dull the unease that gnawed relentlessly at his guts. But knowing that it would not.

-----------------------  
  
The ride across the plains had been fast and boisterous. It wasn't just the riders that needed to let off steam. The horses too seemed eager to stretch their muscles and the moment they were given their heads they broke into an exuberant gallop. Eomer had been unable to contain a less than kingly whoop of delight as he felt Firefoot's power beneath him. It had been a long time since he'd ridden without armour or helmet and with sword and bow secured to his saddle instead of his body. The freedom of it was intoxicating, and for the first time in weeks, the pressures of kingship lifted from this shoulders.  
  
Now, though, the woods offered excitement of a different kind. Stealth was required here. Eomer urged Firefoot forward with a gentle nudge of his leg. Obediently the horse lifted its feet over a fallen tree, taking him deeper amongst the trees. Unlike Fangorn, this was a young wood. Birds filled the air with song and the sun reached through the canopy of branches and leaves to dapple the floor with puddles of light. The riders began to fan out as the close proximity of one tree to the next forced each of them to choose a different path. Eomer drifted to the left of the group, his senses alert for a flash of deer hide.  
  
The trees were even thicker in this direction, and as agreed earlier, the company began to split into small groups of two and three. Eomer caught a glimpse of Elfhelm to his right. The older man looked unhappy, clearly ill at ease in an environment that denied him a clear line of sight to his king. Eomer refused to let that bother him. In fact he welcomed it. Elfhelm's insistence on playing bodyguard had been growing increasing claustrophobic. Recently, it would not have surprised him to wake in the morning and find the man sleeping at the foot of his bed. A few moments away from his ever-watchful eye was something Eomer had began to long for.  
  
To Eomer's left, Ceorl gestured urgently, pointing through the trees. Eomer squinted into the distance, and then shook his head. He'd seen nothing. Ceorl gestured again, this time beckoning Eomer to follow him. What could it hurt to humour the young man? With a smile, Eomer nudged Firefoot on. With a backward glance and another gesture, this time a finger to his lips as though the king needed reminding of the importance of stealth, Ceorl pressed deeper into the forest. Eomer followed, his bow now held loosely in his hand and the prospect of being the first to bring down game filling him with quiet excitement. He hated to admit it, but he missed the adrenalin rush of battle. There was something incredibly intoxicating about battling for one's life and knowing that single mistake with sword or shield would have terrible repercussions. It was what he had been born to do. What he had trained all his life for. And now, as Firefoot stepped silently forward, he welcomed the pale echo of that feeling, even though his quarry was meat for his sister's wedding rather than freedom from rampaging orcs for Rohan.  
  
It suddenly occurred to him that he had now lost sight of everyone except Ceorl. Used to riding the open plains, he'd forgotten how easy it was to get lost and disorientated in woodland. He gestured for Ceorl to stop and nudged Firefoot forward intending to tell the young man that it would be wiser to turn back, if only to save himself a tongue lashing from Elfhelm, but then he saw a sudden flash of brown.  
  
Deer! Ceorl turned towards him, his thin face breaking into a triumphant smile. Eomer felt his own spirits surge upwards. He reached for an arrow, but then hesitated as he saw that the flash of animal hide was not a deer at all, but a man clad in dark brown leather. The hesitation cost him dearly as the man stepped out of the undergrowth and revealed himself to be an archer with a nocked arrow aimed straight at Ceorl's heart.  
  
"Cry out and your rider dies!"  
  
Eomer's stomach lurched and his hand dropped to his sword. He swore as he clutched at thin air. The weapon wasn't at his hip. It was still lashed to Firefoot's saddle. Before he could react further, two more archers stepped from behind a thick oak tree, both with arrows aimed at Eomer's own chest. "Off the horse, my Lord King," the nearest one said. "Quietly now."  
  
His gaze swept the surrounding woodland desperately, but there was no sign of Elfhelm or any of his other men. Cursing his own foolishness, he knew he had little choice but to do as the men commanded. It was either that or watch Ceorl die. Reluctantly he swung himself out of the saddle.  
  
"What do you want?" he demanded. "I carry nothing of value with me."  
  
A fourth man stepped into Eomer's line of sight. He smiled coldly as he walked over and took the useless bow from Eomer's hand. "What we want is you. And we care not whether we take you dead or alive, so think carefully before you attempt to thwart us."  
  
"You cannot hope to get away with this," Eomer hissed, as his hands were bound tightly behind his back. "My men..."  
  
"You men will die if they try to rescue you," the man said from behind him as though there was no doubt about the matter.  
  
Eomer twisted his head to one side as a thick strip of coarse woollen material was pulled across his mouth. "I will not be gagged. You have my word I will not call to my riders."  
  
"Your word means nothing. Either you will be gagged or we will put an arrow into that young rider over there. The choice is yours."  
  
Fury pooled in his stomach. The insult to his honour was bad enough. But being powerless to act was a far worse injury. That his own foolishness had bought him to this point was salt in the wound.  
  
"Well?" the man demanded. Reluctantly Eomer opened his mouth and allowed his captor to pull the material between his jaws before tying it behind his head. "That's better. See, it is not so difficult to learn to obey orders instead of giving them." The man turned from Eomer to Ceorl. "Are you ready?"  
  
Eomer's stomach did a sickening lurch as Ceorl nodded and then swung down off his horse. This couldn't be. Surely his eyes deceived him. Ceorl knew these men? Was somehow in league with them? A dozen questions demanded a reply, but the gag kept him silent.  
  
Ceorl's face paled as one of the men stepped forward, removing the arrow from his bow. "Wait! There is something I wish to do first." He walked across to Eomer. Standing face to face with him, he gave a contemptuous smile. "Impetuous. Foolish. Arrogant. Those are words I have often heard used to describe you, Eomer, Son of Edmund."  
  
Stunned, Eomer stared back, unable to comprehend the situation. It was clear now that Ceorl loathed him with an intensity that would have frightened a lesser man. But why? What had he done to the young man to deserve such payment? And what was it about his tone that seemed so sickeningly familiar?  
  
Ceorl continued. "When my mother first told me of her plan to destroy you, I did not believe it would work. It seemed so simple. Surely a king would not fall so easily into such a trap? And yet here we are. You, bound and helpless. While I – "He drew in a deep, satisfied breath. "I will take everything that is now yours. And more." Eomer's eyes widened as Ceorl leaned close and whispered in his ear. "Not only will I take Rohan, I shall take your sister too."  
  
The meaning of the young man's words was only too plain. Outraged Eomer started forward, fury driving his desperate need to strike out, despite the futility of his action. Ceorl stepped backwards, momentarily startled, then a twisted smile turned his face from handsome to grotesque as he realised a bound man could do nothing to harm him. Stepping forward again, he planted his fist in Eomer's stomach. With a sharp intake of breath, the king dropped to his knees, eyes watering with pain. Ceorl grabbed a fistful of his hair, and yanked his head up. "That was for my uncle," he hissed into his face.  
  
"Enough!" The man with the arrow stepped forward. "We do not have time for your petty games of revenge."  
  
Ceorl's eyes blazed as he turned towards him, but then he nodded. "Very well. Do what you must."  
  
The man nodded, and then traced his fingers along Ceorl's collar bone before pressing into the depression between shoulder and torso. "I will put it here," he said. "The damage will be as little as possible."  
  
"Just do it!" Ceorl said, his voice tense.  
  
The man didn't speak again. Instead, in one swift move, he jerked his arm back and then plunged the arrow into Ceorl's body. The young rider cried out and then dropped to his knees, the arrow protruding from his flesh where moments before the man's fingers had pressed.  
  
Horrified, Eomer met Ceorl's gaze. And despite himself, he shivered as he saw the look of triumph in the young man's eyes.


	2. Captured

_A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed part 1. Hope part 2 lives up to expectations._

**Chapter 2: Captured**

****

"Lothiriel!" Eowyn shouted her greeting as she raced down the steps of the Golden Hall, too excited to adhere to the strictures of an official welcome. "You are here at last."  
  
"Indeed I am," Lothiriel replied with a laugh. She swung down from her horse, and met her soon-to-be-cousin-in-law with a joyful hug. "Look at you. So radiant." She snatched up Eowyn's hand and pulled her towards the wagon that had accompanied her. "I can't wait to show you what I have bought for you."  
  
"Do you have news of Faramir?" Eowyn asked breathlessly. "He is well?"  
  
Lothiriel laughed. "He is well, indeed. Although his impatience to be wed has been trying. I swear every other sentence begins with your name."  
  
"Only every other sentence?" Eowyn said with a mock pout. Her eyes widened as Lothiriel threw back the cover on the wagon. "Silk? And in such beautiful colours."  
  
"We will make you a bridal wardrobe so splendid I swear my cousin will be rendered speechless for a week," Lothiriel promised. She glanced around the courtyard at the honour guard that had hastily formed on her arrival. Her good humour dimmed slightly. "Is your brother so caught up with affairs of state, he does not have time to greet guests?"  
  
Eowyn rolled her eyes. "My brother has gone hunting. He pretends that it is to ensure a marvellous wedding feast, but I think he was simply eager to escape from Edoras."  
  
"Oh." Lothiriel's face fell further. "I trust it was not the prospect of my presence that drove him from the Golden Hall."  
  
"Of course not," Eowyn said. She dragged her attention away from the bales of silk and eyed Lothiriel afresh. "Why the sudden interest in my brother's whereabouts?"  
  
Colour flooded Lothiriel's face. "I simply wished to give due greeting to the new King of Rohan."  
  
"Lothiriel?" Eowyn didn't believe that for a moment.  
  
The young woman sighed. "Very well. I will tell you for I know you will drag it from me. When I said that every other sentence Faramir uttered began with your name, I was speaking truth. All the other sentences began with the name of Eomer."  
  
Eowyn frowned in confusion. "Why?"  
  
Lothiriel gave her an exasperated look. "My cousin has been trying to match make. And although I have absolutely no desire to be wed, nor to give Faramir the satisfaction of succeeding where my father has so far failed, I must confess he has made me most curious to meet this brother of yours. Is it true he is fair of face?"  
  
At that, Eowyn gave a peal of laughter. "If you think the back of a horse attractive, then yes."  
  
Lothiriel's face fell. "Then what of his character? Faramir told me he was a most brave and honourable man."  
  
"And was he drunk when he said this?" Eowyn demanded.  
  
"Well, no." Lothiriel's distress deepened, and Eowyn suddenly took pity of her.  
  
She linked her arm through Lothiriel's, and drew her towards the steps of the Golden Hall. "My dear cousin, I am teasing you most mercilessly. My brother is indeed brave and honourable and yes, fair of face. But you must not let him know I said so. I would never hear the end of it."  
  
Lothiriel gave a puff of relief. "Thank goodness. For a moment, I feared it was Faramir who was playing a jest upon me."  
  
Eowyn laughed again. "My dear Lothiriel. It would seem his match making has been most effective."  
  
"I am merely curious to see if the reality matches the description," Lothiriel said sternly. "Nothing more."  
  
"Of course," Eowyn said with a smile. "Heaven forbid that the most eligible princess in all of Gondor should come to a wedding in Rohan to find a husband of her own."

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"Where is the king?" Elfhelm demanded. The riders had spread out, and he had been separated from Eomer. Now he was growing uneasy as the length of time since he'd last glimpsed the king grew longer. He urged his horse forward to the group of riders to his right. "Aldred, have you seen the king?"  
  
"Not since we passed the great oak," the rider replied.  
  
Elfhelm swore and reined his horse to the left. "Have you seen Eomer?" he asked again. "Has anyone seen the king?" A sick dismay was pooling his stomach. It turned acidic as they shook their heads. He spun round in his saddle, desperate for a glimpse of a royal cloak or the grey of Firefoot's flanks.  
  
"I saw him, my Lord." Fram trotted to Elfhelm's side, tugging a dead leaf from his hair. "We were together for a brief while, then he headed off with Ceorl and I lost sight of them both."  
  
The mention of Ceorl sent a shiver across Elfhelm's shoulders. "Find the king," he said to Fram. "Find him now!" He urged his horse forward. "Eomer?" he yelled. "Where are you?" Shocked faces turned towards him, and then the cry rang through the forest. "Find the king!"

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The search seemed interminable. But then suddenly a voice shouted through the trees. "My Lord Elfhelm. To me!"  
  
"Have you found him?" he shouted back, turning his horse in the direction of the voice.  
  
"No, my Lord. It is Ceorl. He's been shot!"  
  
Shot! Elfhelm felt his horse react as he tensed. If Ceorl was shot, then what of Eomer? Moments later he saw the sight for himself. Ceorl was propped up against a tree, an arrow protruding from his shoulder. Elfhelm swung down from his saddle and hurried over to the young rider. His skin was ashen and beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. Elfhelm glanced at the arrow and concluded the injury wasn't life threatening. "Where is the king?"  
  
The young rider looked up at him, his face pained. "Wild men," he said hoarsely. "They seemed to just come from nowhere."  
  
"The king," Elfhelm repeated.  
  
Ceorl licked his lips. "They attacked us. After I fell..." He grimaced and closed his eyes.  
  
"Ceorl!" Elfhelm shook his good shoulder. "What happened to the king?"  
  
"I don't know," Ceorl said. "After I fell... I think he pursued them." He raised his good arm and gestured to the west. "That way. I think he went that way."  
  
"Was he injured?"  
  
Ceorl shook his head. "No. He was unharmed." Elfhelm felt a moment of relief, but then Ceorl caught his arm. "There were so many of them, Elfhelm. If they were to turn on him..." He trailed off, his gaze drifting to the trees where he had said the king was last seen.  
  
No. Elfhelm didn't want to think about that. Didn't want to believe that Eomer would be so foolish as to chase after a band of wild men on his own. Yet he knew what the young king could be like when his blood was hot. If he'd seen Ceorl fall, it was just possible he had acted without thinking.  
  
He squeezed Ceorl's arm. "Someone will take you back to Meduseld."  
  
"Where are you going?" Ceorl asked.  
  
"After the king, of course."

----------------  
  
It was difficult to gauge how far his captors had marched him, but Eomer figured it was at least six leagues. Or perhaps it just seemed that far due to the difficulty of the journey. Sweat trickled down his face and into his eyes, half-blinding him. The gag was not only uncomfortable it made it difficult to draw enough air into his lungs for the pace at which they were travelling. And with his hands bound behind him, his sense of balance was off. Three times he'd been tripped by tree roots and, unable to right himself, had hit the forest floor hard and fast. His right shoulder was sure to be a mass of bruises. Plus, he was acutely aware of the tip of a sword aimed squarely between his shoulder blades. All in all, this hunting adventure was proving to be nothing like the enjoyable outing he'd envisioned.  
  
A soft huff of breath to his left told him Firefoot wasn't impressed either. At first the men had attempted to lead his horse by the reins. Firefoot had immediately battled with them, snorting in indignation, and only Ceorl's intervention had prevented the men from firing their arrows to silence him. "He will follow the king unbidden," Ceorl had said. Sure enough, Firefoot had kept pace with them through the wood - every quiver of his muscles radiating his unhappiness that his master was travelling on foot.  
  
Despite all of this, Eomer refused to be despondent with the state of affairs. He didn't for one moment believe that his captors did not care whether he lived or died. If that were true his blood would be staining the forest floor already. No. They were taking him to someone. He was sure of it. And that meant that they needed him alive, no matter what they might say in an attempt to frighten him into submission. Sooner or later he would get a chance to escape. And when he did, Firefoot would be ready for him.  
  
The trees were beginning to thin now, and ahead Eomer caught sight of five tethered horses. Four were decent enough looking animals, but the fifth was in a sorry state. It barely looked strong enough to carry the worn saddle on its back, never mind a man. Beyond the horses, the trees gave way to a stretch of open plain. Further still was a range of craggy hills. Was that where they were heading?  
  
A hand on his shoulder jerked him to a halt at the horses. He felt fingers fumble at the knot of his gag and then, to his sincere relief, he was allowed to spit the material from his mouth. He worked his aching jaw and prodded at the sore skin to either side of his mouth with a tongue that was as dry as desert.  
  
"We will rest a moment," the leader of his captors said. He moved to one of the horses and retrieved a waterskin from one of the saddlebags.  
  
"Who are you?" Eomer asked, trying not to reveal his thirst by following the progress of the water skin as it was passed from hand to hand.  
  
"Our names are not important."  
  
"Very well. From now on I will refer to you as Horsedung. The man over there with the red hair will be..." The man's arm moved so fast Eomer barely had time to register what was coming before the open-handed slap snapped his head to one side. One day he would learn to keep as a tight rein on his mouth as he did on an untried horse. He slowly turned his head back, and met his captor's gaze with defiance.  
  
The man glared at him. "You will show respect."  
  
"I will not show respect to one not brave enough to give me his name," Eomer threw back. He licked moisture from his lip, realised it was blood, and wondered if he had lost his grip on reason. Was this really worth a split lip? Yes, he decided. If only because he knew it was not so easy to kill someone who had called you by name.  
  
"Selred," the man snapped. "That is what I will answer to." He eyed Eomer afresh. "So it is true what they say of you."  
  
"And what would that be?" Eomer asked.  
  
"That where Theoden-King was as cool as the winter's snow, you are as hot- blooded as an unbroken stallion."  
  
"Why don't you untie me and find out?" Eomer challenged. Today, apparently, was not the day he'd learn to hold his tongue.  
  
"Believe me, my Lord King, nothing would give me more pleasure than to break your infamous spirit. Sadly, I do not have the time for such an indulgence." Selred took the waterskin from one of his companions, drank deeply, and then - to Eomer's dismay - returned it to the saddlebag. With an exaggerated bow, he gestured Eomer towards the sad specimen of a horse. "Your mount awaits."  
  
Eomer gave a snort and glanced towards Firefoot. "You would offend my stallion by having me ride such a creature?"  
  
"Your horse will not be travelling further with us."  
  
Horror was like a fist in his gut. They intended to kill Firefoot? Despite himself, Eomer knew his face gave away his distress. To his surprise, though, Selred shot him a look of sympathy.  
  
"We are not that cold-blooded," he said. "We merely intend to drive him back into the forest. It matters not if his protests are now heard. Indeed, it will serve our purposes if he is found."  
  
"You do not need to drive him away," Eomer said, not wanting to think how the men might achieve that. Firefoot would certainly not make the task easy for them. "He will not follow if I command him otherwise."  
  
Selred studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Very well."  
  
Heavy-hearted, Eomer turned towards Firefoot and softly called his name. The horse immediately came to him. Standing before him, it gently nuzzled at his chest. His hands still bound, Eomer did what he could to reassure him. He rested his forehead against Firefoot's long face, feeling the warmth of the animal's body against his own.  
  
"Make him stand," Selred commanded, his gaze on Eomer's sword, which was lashed to the saddle. "I will have that weapon before he leaves."  
  
Reluctantly, Eomer did as he was bid. Once the sword was removed, he looked Firefoot in the eye, his face stern. "Go home!" he commanded, nodding towards the wood. Firefoot stared back at him, intelligence and defiance in his eyes. Eomer met his gaze sternly. "Do as you're told," he said. Go home!" With a huff of breath, Firefoot stepped forward and butted Eomer hard in the chest, letting him know exactly what he thought of the royal command. Eomer glowered at him, even though Firefoot's determined loyalty touched him deeply. "Go home!" he repeated tersely. "Go!"  
  
With an indignant flounce of his head, Firefoot turned and headed into the trees. A heavy weight settled on Eomer's shoulders as his equine companion disappeared from view. He was truly alone now.  
  
Two of men manhandled him on to his new mount. He could feel its ribs beneath his legs, and he wished he were a lighter load for it to bear. He murmured a soft apology to it, and was rewarded for his compassion by a sharp look from Selred.  
  
"Do not think to win his favour," he said. "He responds to naught except a riding crop across his rump."  
  
Eomer didn't reply to that. The horse might not respond to Selred, but it had already registered his presence on its back albeit with only the slightest twitch of an ear. He relaxed into the saddle, settling his weight as best he could for the animal's comfort, and tried to bring to mind the long conversations he'd had with Legolas following Sauron's defeat. Elven magic. He'd been sceptical at first. But then he'd seen the way the Elven prince could persuade a horse to do things that he would scarce have believed possible. The words themselves carry much power, Legolas had told him. Though no Elf blood flows through your veins, you may still be able to draw upon them if your need is sufficient. He certainly had need now. But could he remember the words? And, once remembered, could he force his tongue to form the gentle vowels of the Elvish language.  
  
Mounted now, Selred came up behind him and smacked the horse sharply with his crop. The animal lurched into a reluctant walk. So confident were they that the horse would not respond to Eomer, they'd simply tied the animal's reins short about his neck. Not that Eomer could use them with his hands tied behind his back. There was more to controlling a horse than a bit and bridle though. As they set off across the plains, he began to experiment with a gentle pressure from first one leg, then the other. The horse seemed oblivious.  
  
Not wanting to draw attention to what he was doing, Eomer leaned forward as far as he dared and murmured one of the Elvish words Legolas had taught him. Nothing. No response. He tried again, adjusting his pronunciation, trying to roll his tongue around the word. And this time he was rewarded with a twitch of an ear. He tried again, smoothing the vowels even more, and his mount's ears pricked up. Sitting back he now combined the two – elvish words and his own skill as a horseman. To his delight the creature began to veer to the left. Quickly he corrected the movement, bringing the animal back in line with the column. Relaxing back into the saddle, he smiled to himself. He had control. Now he just needed to find a way to put it to good use.

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Elfhelm's heart grew heavier as the sun travelled across the sky. Soon it would be dusk and then night. Already the shadows were lengthening, stealing his hope that he might look up and see Eomer crashing through the trees towards him, a triumphant look on his face and the blood of Ceorl's attackers on his sword.  
  
Wildmen. Surely they would be no match for the king. Eomer had proven his skill and intelligence as a warrior time after time. Indeed, the favourite song in the alehouses of Rohan was of the Marshall who had bought down two Mumakhil with a single spear - a deed that the Rohirrim took much pleasure in pointing out surpassed the exploits of the much praised Prince of Mirkwood. A handful of Wildman was nothing in comparison. So where was he?  
  
Elfhelm shivered as his mind supplied unwelcome images of injured and dying men. He still remembered the dark blow of finding Theodred lying fatally wounded at the Ford of Isen, his chest bloody and torn. Losing his prince had been devastating. Yet worse was to come. He had been there when they found Theoden's broken body. It had fallen on his shoulders to say what had to be said. 'The king is dead. Long live the king.' They hadn't known where Eomer was then either. Had not known if he'd lived or died. Indeed, the words had come from his mouth more as a prayer than a declaration. It had seemed like an eternity passed before the new king of Rohan - ignorant of his status - had suddenly appeared as though from nowhere, stumbling towards them, filthy, blood-stained and with his sister's apparently lifeless body in his arms.  
  
Those had been dark days. Days Elfhelm had hoped not to revisit. He did not think his heart could bear to lose another king. Another friend.  
  
"My Lord Elfhelm." Fram drew up beside him. "It will be dark soon and our horses grow weary. What should we do?"  
  
He knew the answer but it weighed heavily on him to utter the words. "Tell the men we will make camp here. At first light we will resume the search."  
  
Fram nodded obediently, but Elfhelm saw the look in his eyes. If they had not found Eomer today, the chances of doing so tomorrow were slim. The chances of finding him alive even more so.


	3. An unwelcome discovery

_Many thanks to everyone who has reviewed the first two chapters. Now on with the story..._

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Eomer was familiar with the craggy hills that now surrounded him. As a youth, he'd been bought here by Theoden to learn the art of strategy. The hills were peppered with caves, making them an ideal place to practice the skills of defence. He glanced to his right, recognising a particularly large cave set back into a rocky recess. It had once been a substitute for Helm's Deep. He and three other youths had defended it against a far superior force comprised of Theodred and a dozen members of his eorod. Eomer had been the last one standing, although Theodred had somewhat bad- temperedly pointed out that by the rules of the game his younger cousin had probably been mortally wounded at least three times. Flushed with success, Eomer had declared that rules were designed to be broken - a comment that had earned him a long lecture from his uncle and a week cleaning the stalls of not only Theodred's horse but of his entire eorod too.  
  
Now, all these years later, he still stood by his comment. Rules were designed to be broken. The rules of his current predicament dictated that he shouldn't do anything that might endanger his life. He was a king without a direct heir (something his advisers considered worthy of mention on an almost daily basis) and therefore was not a dispensable commodity. However, in this particular game he'd been given cards that should not, by rights, have been his. That surely changed the rules. Or at least bent them in his favour.  
  
Now they were no longer in full view on the open plain, Selred called a rest halt, just as Eomer had suspected he would. He glanced round, familiarising himself with the territory. Up ahead the valley forked into three canyons. He knew the one to the left splintered several times more. He knew too that there was a network of caverns leading off one of the narrow fingers of space between the crags. If he could but make it there, he could easily evade recapture in the dark tunnels beneath the hills. He leaned forward and whispered a soft word to his mount. The animal's ears quivered and it blew a soft, impatient breath.  
  
Eomer bided his time. His captors did not expect his horse to move without being struck and therefore the advantage of surprise would be all his. His heartbeat quickened as, one by one, they dismounted. Then, as the final rider swung down from the saddle and moved away from his horse, Eomer acted. He leaned forward and urged his horse into movement with both his legs and his scant knowledge of Elvish. Selred's head swung in his direction, mocking disbelief on his face. Eomer dug his heels into his mount's desensitised sides, and desperately began to chant the one word he believed might save him. For a moment, he thought it futile. Selred started towards him, clearly intending to pull him from the saddle. Then suddenly the horse came to life. With a whinny, it bunched its meagre muscles and set off at a gallop. His hands still bound behind him, Eomer almost lost his seat and for one sickening moment thought his escape was going to be over almost as soon as it had begun. But then a fortuitous bounce put him back in the saddle. He rolled his hips back, eased into the familiar motion and thanked his captors that they'd provided him with stirrups.  
  
"Stop him!" Selred screamed.  
  
Eomer didn't look back. He didn't dare. The dual tasks of keeping in the saddle and persuading his horse to veer left were challenge enough. Heart pounding he heard an arrow fly past his right ear and then saw it embed itself in the ground ahead of him. Then came the rapid rhythm of pursuers. A second arrow sailed past him. The flesh between his shoulder blades prickled in anticipation of metal piercing skin. Keep calm. Keep calm. A few more strides and he'd be into the narrow gorge where the twists and turns would offer protection from the bows firing from behind him. A third arrow hit the ground, making his horse start. He murmured more Elvish - hoped desperately that he wasn't asking the animal to stop for dinner - and was relieved when it responded by charging into the gorge. A few strides on they did an abrupt turn to the left. Another fifty strides, and horse and rider swung to the right.  
  
Ahead was the entrance to the cavern. He was going to make it. The outraged cries of Selred and his men were muffled by the rock walls. With luck they would already be uncertain as to which way he'd turned. Just a few more strides and he'd be safe. He urged his mount on in his own tongue now. Allowed himself to relax back into the saddle as the horse dropped from gallop to canter.  
  
His mind was already on the next part of his escape – the need to dismount, free himself of his bonds, find somewhere safe to hide the horse –  
  
Suddenly a shadowy object rose from the ground a mere stride away from his horse's hooves. It was too intangible to be any creature Eomer could name – more wraith than flesh and blood. A noise reverberated off the rocky walls surrounding him - like the flapping of giant bird wings - but the creature neither took to the air, nor ran across the ground. It just seemed to hover. Dark. Menacing. Evil.  
  
Eyes rolling white, his horse reared up in fright, almost tipping him backwards from the saddle. Only his grim determination and the strength of his knees kept him on the animal's back. Then, as abruptly as it had reared, it crashed down, tucked its head to its chest and kicked out and up with its back legs. Already off balance, Eomer didn't stand a chance. He was thrown violently from the saddle. His hands still bound, he was unable to do anything to ease his fall as he flipped over the horse's head and then, with a sickening thud slammed into solid rock. His breath rushed from his lungs. Pain seared through his arms, and shot into his shoulders and back. His vision greyed as a thousand bells began a mocking cacophony of noise in his head. And just before the world went black he was sure he heard a woman's laugh.

-------------  
  
Consciousness was an unwelcome state. His brain registered a dozen unpleasant signals – the burning ache in his shoulders and upper back. The grinding of bone against bone. The sharp pain behind his eyes. And the nausea-inducing sense motion. Unwillingly he opened his eyes and discovered that he was indeed moving. Moss-covered ground passed slowly beneath his head. His sense of smell kicked in now – horse and leather. Gradually the clues began to add together and he realised to his dismay that he was slung face down across the saddle of a horse. His hands dangled below his head, his wrists lashed tightly together. A quick test proved that his ankles were also bound. He'd failed. He was a prisoner still. And worse, now he was injured, although to what extent he was unable to tell.  
  
"So, you have woken at last."  
  
The legs of another horse came into view. Fingers tangled in his hair, and his head was yanked brutally upwards. His eyes watered with the pain, but he blinked the tears away as he looked into a familiar face and desperately sought a name. "Selred?"  
  
The man gave a rough laugh. "The fall did not knock all sense from you then."  
  
His head was released as sharply as it had been snatched up. Darkness called softly to him. And he welcomed its embrace.  
  
-------------  
  
He wasn't sure how long he drifted in and out of consciousness. Finally, though, he became aware that he was no longer moving, and that neither was he draped ignobly across the saddle of a horse. He was still lying face down, but the surface beneath him was now hard and flat. It was also extremely cold against his bare skin.  
  
Bare skin? Horrified, he realised he was completely naked. For a moment he didn't dare move. Could hardly comprehend his situation. Had he been stripped and left to die in the wilderness somewhere?  
  
No. That didn't make any sense. Selred had mentioned being paid for delivering him. He inhaled slowly and felt a lightweight fabric slide against the tender skin on his back. Relief washed over him as he caught at it with the fingers of his right hand. Not completely naked then. Someone had been compassionate enough to fling a thin woollen blanket over him. That still left the question of where he was, though.  
  
Forcing his way past the various pain signals that were clamouring for attention, he warily raised his head from the ground and got the first glimpse of his surroundings. Although it was dark, he knew immediately he was in a cell. On three sides he was surrounded by solid rock. The fourth consisted of thick iron bars that stretched from floor to ceiling. The cell door was also made of vertical bars, set into which was a solid-looking lock. Beyond the bars, he could just about make out the shadowy shapes of a table with two benches. Further still he thought he could see the glimmer of firelight. Yes, it was indeed a fire; now he could smell the tang of burning wood. Apparently his cell was built into the back of some kind of living quarters - possibly inside a cave judging from the darkness.  
  
He was about to push himself into a sitting position when he suddenly heard voices. The words were audible, but they were distant enough to be coming from people by the fire. Instinctively he dropped his head back to the ground and pretended to still be unconscious as he listened intently.  
  
"You know what to do with these, right?" The first voice was female, but clearly belonged to someone used to giving orders and having them carried out.  
  
A male voice replied. "Yes." Was it Selred? Eomer was too far away to be sure.  
  
"And you have someone of the right height and build?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Make sure the body is not recognisable."  
  
"I know what to do." The man sounded peevish. "Trust me."  
  
There was the sound of booted footsteps and then a door opening and closing. After that came silence. _'Make sure the body is not recognisable.'_ Eomer didn't like the sound of that. What dark plot had he fallen into? He realised there was only one way to find. More importantly, there was only one way to discover if he was now alone. He placed his hands against the cold ground, planning to push himself up. A searing pain immediately shot up his left arm. With a groan he collapsed, clutching the arm across his chest and rolling on to his back. That immediately wrenched a second cry from him as his shoulders screamed in protest.  
  
"I take it from your mewling you're awake," a voice snapped in his direction.  
  
The sound of the woman approaching was enough to make Eomer forget his injuries. He rocked forward, tucked his legs into his chest, and pulled the meagre blanket tightly around his shoulders with his right arm, cradling his left as best he could. Only then did he realise he had his back to the bars. Quickly he scooted round, and found himself looking at a tall, slender woman holding a lantern. He frowned as he looked at her face. It was hard to be certain in the yellow glow, but there was something eerily familiar about her features. Pale skin. Light coloured eyes. Long dark hair.  
  
"Do I know you?" he asked.  
  
"We have not met," she replied, eyeing him coldly. "Although I know you well enough."  
  
Eomer shivered. Told himself firmly it was because he was cold and in pain, not because of her tone. "What do you want with me?"  
  
She raised her narrow eyebrows in surprise. "I thought my son would've told you the answer to that."  
  
"Your son?" Eomer wished his head wasn't throbbing quite so severely. It was hard to think.  
  
"Yes. I was proud of the speed with which he wormed his way into your household - into your trust." She smiled icily. "But then that's a family trait."  
  
"Ceorl." Eomer spat the name in disgust. "He told me he had no family. Or at least, none that he could remember."  
  
"And you believed him. As I knew you would. His story touched you, did it not? Reminded you of your own youth? Young, orphaned, homeless."  
  
Her mockery stung. "Why are you doing this? I've shown nothing but kindness to your son."  
  
"Kindness!" She snorted the word. "You horse lords are all the same. You ride around the country in your shiny armour bestowing your favours as you see fit and expecting us to be grateful for the crumbs from your table."  
  
"I don't know what you're talking about," Eomer said. The conversation was threatening to sap what little strength he had. His body ached and throbbed, and he could no longer remember when he'd last eaten or drunk. Even though the ground beneath him was cold and hard, it seemed infinitely preferable to being vertical. "Just tell me your name and want you want from me."  
  
"My name," she said softly. "You would like that, wouldn't you Eomer, Son of Eomund. You know as well as I the power of names. Or perhaps I should say of nicknames." There was accusation in her words, but Eomer didn't know why. "Very well," she said. "I will give you my name. And in so doing you will know what I want from you."  
  
"Enough riddles, woman," Eomer snapped. "Speak if you will or leave me be."  
  
"I am Galwyn, daughter of Galmod."  
  
"Galmod?" The name was not a welcome discovery. Eomer hesitated a moment before asking, "The same Galmod that served my uncle as rider?"  
  
"Indeed."  
  
"You're lying. He had no daughter. Only a son. Grima."  
  
"As I said before, the horse lords of Rohan like to ride about the country bestowing their favours as they see fit - particularly upon pretty young women."  
  
Eomer stared up at her, now recognising why she looked so familiar. Yet he could still barely believe what she was saying. "Grima had a half-sister?"  
  
"You can see with your own eyes the answer to that question."  
  
A sense of sick dread uncurled in his stomach and he pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders. The sharp angles of her face were beginning to blur. He sucked in a deep breath, as he tried to keep a grip on consciousness. Grima Wormtongue had a half-sister? And a nephew who, even now, was no doubt spreading lies through the halls of Meduseld? "I take it treachery is as much a family trait as dark hair and pale eyes," he managed to say.  
  
She laughed softly. "You call it treachery. I call it ambition."  
  
He felt himself sway as dizziness washed over him. She eyed him as though he was a cockerel she was selecting for the dinner table. "You look unwell, my lord King. I will have someone tend to your injuries." She turned away. "Co-operate with them and I will bring food and drink for you also."  
  
He had no intention of doing otherwise. He could be stubborn and hot- headed, but he wasn't stupid, and he knew he needed a healer for his arm at least. "Thank you," he murmured as the battle to remain upright finally defeated him. He toppled sideways, letting his right shoulder bear the brunt of the fall.  
  
She turned back, her expression cold as she looked down at him. "Do not mistake my hospitality for compassion. I merely intend to ensure that you die at a time of my choosing." And with that, she strode away, leaving him cold and alone in the dark.


	4. Healers and horses

_First let me thank all my reviewers. Your kind words are much appreciated. Just to answer a couple of comments:  
  
Lady scribe of avandell: I don't think it's too much of a spoiler to say that Lothiriel has a significant part to play in this story. :-) Especially in later chapters.  
  
Athelas63: Oh dear, I fear you may have a great deal more to worry about in upcoming chapters. Sorry!  
  
And now... on with chapter 4_

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It was light when Eomer opened his eyes again. He climbed painfully to his feet, stood for a long moment as he wrestled with nausea and dizziness. When his body finally succumbed to his control, he moved to the bars of his cell. Although he knew it would be pointless, he tried the door. The lock was as sturdy as he had suspected. The only way he was going to get out of his cell was if someone unlocked it for him.  
  
At least now he could see that he was indeed in a cave, the narrow entrance of which was a hundred paces from the door of his cell. The interior seemed equipped as a hide-out rather than a permanent dwelling. On the other side of his bars were the bare essentials for living – the table and benches he'd noticed before, a storage chest, lanterns and candles, and a dozen barrels that no doubt held supplies of dried food. His belly rumbled at that thought, and he wondered how long he would have to wait for the promised healer.  
  
Not long was the answer. Galwyn arrived within a few minutes. With her was a young girl of perhaps seventeen summers in age. The girl studied him, her face devoid of expression.  
  
"Move to the back wall," Galwyn commanded, drawing a small dagger from its sheath at her side. In full health, he would've found it amusing that she considered such a weapon sufficient to defend herself against him. In his current state, he knew she could probably knock him down with a well-placed slap. He therefore did as he was told, watching intently as she took a heavy key from a pocket in her gown and then unlocked the door. Galwyn gestured to the girl to enter the cell, and for a brief moment Eomer thought he saw anger flash in the girl's eyes. Then the emotion was gone again. She passively stepped inside, her back to the door as Galwyn locked the cell again.  
  
"This is the healer?" Eomer asked, painfully conscious he was naked beneath the blanket. Wrapped around his shoulders it covered him to his knees, but patches of it were threadbare, and he had no way to fasten it other than to hold the ends together with one hand.  
  
Galwyn ignored him, instead addressing the girl. "Do not have pity for this man. There is a great deal of blood on his hands. Blood that he will pay for when the time is right." She turned away, calling over her shoulder. "I will be back soon. Ensure that his injuries will not cause his death, but do not waste your time treating trivial hurts."  
  
Apparently unconcerned that she was now locked in a cell with a strange man, the girl stepped forward and removed the two bags that were slung over her shoulder. Setting them carefully on the floor, she glanced at him. "Come. I need to examine you."  
  
He was surprised at the authority in her voice. "How old are you?" he asked.  
  
"Old enough to know how to mix potions and set broken bones." She knelt next to her bags and began to lay out a number of leather pouches. She glanced up at him again. "Well? Do you intend to stand in the shadows all day, clutching that blanket like a child with a comforter?"  
  
Heat burned his cheeks. He knew it was foolish, but given the choice between facing a hundred orcs bare-handed and being naked in front of a young girl, he'd choose the orcs every time. She looked up again and made an exasperated noise.  
  
"I may be young but I have seen the male form before. You need not fear that I will swoon at the sight of you. Come."  
  
He felt even more foolish that she had read him so easily, and he reluctantly he moved away from the wall. "What is your name?" he asked.  
  
She gave him a sharp look, the question apparently not welcome. "Erika," she said, climbing to her feet. "Tell me what hurts."  
  
It would have been simple to say everything, but remembering Galwyn's parting comment, he concentrated on the worst of his injuries. "My left arm. I think it's broken. My upper back and shoulders. And I have a headache worst than any midsummer hangover." He resisted the urge to add his pride to the list.  
  
"Are any of your injuries below your waist?"  
  
"No," he said immediately. She gave him a look that said she knew he wouldn't confess to such hurt. "Really," he added defensively.  
  
She turned her attention back to her medicines. "Then perhaps you could wrap the blanket around your lower body so that I can take a look at your back."  
  
He turned away from her and dropped the blanket down to his waist. It wrapped around his hips twice and actually felt quite secure when he'd finished tucking it in. Nevertheless, he still cursed Galwyn for sending a female healer, and a young one at that. His embarrassment deepened as Erika walked around him as though studying a stallion about to be put to stud.  
  
"Please kneel," she said. "You are too tall for me to check for head injuries."  
  
Feeling more than a bit self-conscious, he did as she asked. Slowly she reached forward and pushed his hair back from his face. Her fingers were gentle as she moved them over his scalp, starting at his temples and working her way slowly up and back.  
  
"Ouch!" He sucked in a breath as she found a tender spot not far from his right ear.  
  
"You were knocked unconscious?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
She moved behind him now, and he jumped again as her cold hands touched his bare skin. "Sorry. I will try not to hurt you," she said. "But I must be sure your injuries are not serious. Tell me how you came to be hurt so."  
  
He suspected the question was designed to distract him from her probing fingers, rather than because she wanted to know. However, he was glad of the conversation. He had no idea what story Galwyn had used to explain his imprisonment or what Erika's relationship was to the woman, but he desperately needed an ally and this might be his one chance to draw the young girl onto his side. "My horse threw me." He hesitated and then added. "I was trying to escape Galwyn's henchmen. Erika, do you know who I am?"  
  
"It is better that I do not know," she said quickly. Her fingers pressed hard against the bruises on his shoulder blades, making him gasp. She didn't apologise, and he wondered if she done it deliberately to punish him for his attempt to direct the conversation. Or perhaps it was a warning?  
  
"What made your horse throw you?" she asked casually, her fingers once again light against his skin.  
  
Eomer frowned at the memory. "Something startled it. A dark, shadowy creature that I could give no name to."  
  
For a moment, Erika's fingers were motionless. "Galwyn," she said contemptuously.  
  
"What?" Eomer twisted to look at her. Regretted the move as it pulled at his abused muscles. She pressed her hands against his shoulders, the gentle pressure instruction enough to turn him back to the iron bars.  
  
"Galwyn uses the dark arts," she said quietly. She leaned closer, her breath warm against his skin as she whispered hurriedly. "It is said she can conjure up flames of farsight. Even now she may be watching us." She pulled away again, her fingers now working over his ribs. "Have you any difficulty breathing?" she asked, her voice normal again.  
  
"No." Flames of farsight? He had heard tales of such magic as a youth, but he had not believed them to be true. However, he had learnt the hard way that there were unnatural powers waiting to be tapped by those who were twisted enough to give themselves up to them. And yes, Galwyn dabbling in the dark arts explained much about the way his horse had behaved. It also meant he did not dare say more. Frustrated he blew out a long breath, wondering how he could possibly turn the situation to his advantage.  
  
Erika moved round in front of him again, and gently took his left arm in her hands. "Well, the good news is that your shoulders and back are merely bruised. It is bad bruising. Some of the worst I have seen, but it will heal of its own accord. Your headache too will pass, but I can give you something to ease the pain." She ran her fingers firmly up his arm from wrist to elbow, then turned his arm so his hand was palm up, and did it again.  
  
"Broken?" he asked between clenched teeth, although the pain already told him that it was.  
  
"Yes. However, you are fortunate that it is a simple break that will heal well. I will bind it for you. Galwyn may not care about trivial hurts, but I am a healer and I will not leave you in pain for no good reason." She turned to her bags and retrieved a long strip of cloth and two narrow splints. Her expression was compassionate when she looked at him. "I am sorry that I have no brandy. I would normally allow a man to numb the pain before setting a bone – even a simple break such as this."  
  
He grimaced at her words. "I am sorry too," he said. "Let's just get it over with, shall we?"  
  
She nodded and once again took his arm in her hands. "Tell me when you are ready."  
  
"Just – arrrggghhh!" Pain shot up his arm and into his shoulder as she suddenly grasped his elbow firmly with one hand and yanked his wrist sharply towards her. For a moment he thought he was going to throw up. Or pass out. Or maybe just embarrass himself and sob like a baby.  
  
"I'm sorry," she said. "Sometimes it is better to not be prepared."  
  
"Really?" he ground out.  
  
"Really." She was already binding the splints to his arm.  
  
He closed his eyes and forced the agony down to a tolerable level through sheer stubbornness of will. When he opened his eyes again, he found himself looking at Galwyn. Her eyes were glittering with pleasure at the sight of his pain. With grim determination he wiped his face clean of all expression, and saw the disappointment on her face. It wasn't much of a victory, but it made him feel better.  
  
"Are you done?" she snarled at Erika.  
  
The young woman started at the sound of Galwyn's voice. She glanced over her shoulder, her face once again turning passive. "A few more moments," she said. Turning back to Eomer, she tied the last of the cloth tightly around his arm, and then handed him a pouch from the floor. "Chew one of these leaves whenever you feel the need. They will numb the pain of both your arm and your head, and prevent the sickness that comes with the headache."  
  
"Thank you." He climbed to his feet, and deliberately turned his back on Galwyn. Holding Erika's gaze, he mouthed two words at her, putting as much appeal into his expression as he could. 'Help me.' Her gaze darted past him to Galwyn, then without giving him any response to his desperate appeal she moved to gather up her medicines. He stepped out of her way, despair gnawing at him. He had no idea when he might come into contact with another potential ally. This girl with her youthful face, but adult manner could be his only hope of escape.  
  
Galwyn opened the cell door, and beckoned her out. Erika still didn't look at him as she stepped back into the cave, however as the door clanged shut behind her, she spoke.  
  
"I will do what I can," she said softly. She paused, then glanced up at Galwyn as though that was who she was addressing, and added, "Should he need me again."  
  
Galwyn snorted contemptuously. "The only thing he will need is a grave." She thrust her hand into the pocket of her dress and pulled out a small loaf of bread, barely larger than a man's fist, which she threw to the ground at his feet. The way it bounced told him it was hard and stale. She also set a jug just inside the door.  
  
"I don't suppose that's brandy," he said wistfully.  
  
She glared at him as she turned the key in the lock. Then she strode away, guiding Erika towards the cave mouth. He was alone again. 

----------------------  
  
Lothiriel did her best to keep Eowyn distracted by entertaining her with memories of Faramir from her childhood. However, despite the fact they both laughed at the right places, she knew the humour of her most recent tale had touched neither of them. Even though she had not witnessed it in person, she knew of the deep love between Eowyn and her brother. And she could empathise with Eowyn's distress over his disappearance. In fact, even though she had yet to meet the king, she felt his absence keenly. The whole of Edoras seemed to be holding its breath, waiting, watching, and she was surprised at how deeply she found herself hoping he would suddenly ride through the gate, fit and well.  
  
"Let's take a walk," she said, as she watched Eowyn stabbing a needle in and out of a piece of supposedly delicate embroidery. Fortunately Faramir was unlikely to care if his bride was clad in silk or sackcloth, but for the sake of the dress it was clearly time to take a break. Eowyn was a woman of action. Sitting around the halls of Meduseld sewing and embroidering was clearly not her favourite task at any time, even if the garment she was stitching was her wedding gown. And it didn't help that Lothiriel felt uncomfortable in the role she'd taken upon herself. Having grown up with three brothers, she too was more inclined to action than talk.  
  
"Good idea," Eowyn said, throwing her sewing onto a footstool. "This room seems so oppressive today." She glanced at her cousin, her face apologetic. "I'm sorry. I did not mean to imply that your company..."  
  
"You do not need to apologise," Lothiriel interrupted. "I know you are worried about Eomer." Eowyn's face clouded again, and Lothiriel hurriedly changed the subject. "I would very much like to see the herb garden. I believe you have plants here that will not grow in the soil of Dol Amroth."  
  
"Yes," Eowyn said absent-mindedly. "Let's take a walk."  
  
It was windy on the steps on the Golden Hall. Lothiriel suspected a calm day was a rarity. There were hills to either side of Edoras – ideal for defensive purposes. Unfortunately it meant even the lightest of breezes was forced along the valley between, and that meant directly over the hill that the Rohirrim had chosen to build on. However, the view was spectacular, and given a chance she would've stood and appreciated it. Not today, though. Eowyn was already half-way down the steps. Then, suddenly she stopped. Lothiriel assumed it was to give her chance to catch-up, but when she reached her side, she was horrified to see that Eowyn's pale skin was now ashen.  
  
"What is it?" she asked, following her gaze to the fortified gateway.  
  
"No." Eowyn breathed the word out in a soft denial. "It cannot be." And with that she took off, racing down the steps with reckless speed.  
  
"Eowyn! What is it?" Lothiriel called. When she got no reply, she hitched up her skirt and gave pursuit.  
  
A few yards ahead, Eowyn drew to a halt in front of a tall rider who was leading a saddled grey horse. "Why was I not told of this?" she demanded.  
  
His body language shouting his emotional discomfort, the rider bowed his head to Eowyn, and then turned and gave the horse a pat. "He only just trotted through the gate, my lady. I was about to send word to you."  
  
"He was alone?" Eowyn's voice was taut.  
  
"Yes, my lady."  
  
"Is he hurt?" Eowyn moved to the horse and expertly ran her hands over its body. The horse huffed impatiently.  
  
"I suspect he is hungry and thirsty, but otherwise he seems well." The rider stared at the ground, and then added quietly. "I am sorry."  
  
"Eowyn?" Lothiriel drew level with them. Now her breath caught in her throat – not because of the run, but because of the anguish in Eowyn's eyes as the young woman turned to her. She had heard the conversation and she feared she already knew the answer to her next question. Nevertheless she had to ask it. "Whose horse is this?"  
  
"This is Firefoot," Eowyn said quietly. "He belongs to Eomer." She turned away and walked to the gate. Lothiriel joined her as she gazed across the empty plain. "Oh Lothiriel. What am I going to do? How am I going to bear this?"  
  
Desperately Lothiriel tried to find some comforting words. "Perhaps Eomer was separated from his horse in a fight. It does not have to mean..." She hesitated, not wanting to put that thought into words. "He could perhaps return on another mount, could he not?"  
  
Eowyn shook her head. "You do not understand the bond between a Rohirrim and his horse." Firefoot would never return to Edoras alone unless..." A single tear tracked down her pale cheek.  
  
"Unless what?"  
  
"Unless Eomer was incapable of returning with him."


	5. The darkest of days

_Once again – my thanks to everyone who has taken the time to review this story. It is much, much appreciated. On we go..._

_------------------------------_  
  
They'd searched all morning. With each passing hour, Elfhelm's spirits had fallen.  
  
Fram refused to be down-hearted, though. His optimistic monologue a drone in Elfhelm's ear. "Perhaps the king intended to return to us, but somehow mistakenly passed us by in the forest. He may, even now, be waiting in Edoras."  
  
Elfhelm knew the younger man meant well. But he also knew the likelihood that Eomer would fail to find them was minimal. The king could not match Elessar for tracking skills, but he was more than capable of finding a band of hunting Rohirrim in woodland. He glanced up between the branches of the trees and saw that the sun had long passed midday. They would keep searching until dusk, but then what? Would they do so again tomorrow? And the day after that? How long could he stay here trying to deny the dark thoughts that chilled his bones?  
  
"My Lord!" A rider shouted from his right.  
  
Elfhelm twisted in his saddle. The distressed look on the rider's face sent a bolt of sheer terror through him and he froze. No! Please, don't let it be.  
  
"My Lord Elfhelm? Will you not go to him?" Fram shot him a concerned look.  
  
Around Elfhelm, the other men were waiting for some order – some action. He had to move. Had to see whatever it was that the rider was beckoning him towards. Reluctantly he urged his horse forward. By the time he covered the distance, the rider had dismounted and had turned his back to Elfhelm's approach.  
  
"What is it?" Elfhelm demanded. "What did you see?" He glanced round. Saw nothing but fallen branches and leaf mold.  
  
The rider turned slowly. Draped across his arms was a filthy rag, but then Elfhelm suddenly saw a patch of green. Rohan green. He dismounted in an instant and strode to the rider, snatching the material from him. It was a cloak. Or at least it had been once. Now it was tattered and torn beyond use. And it was damp. Elfhelm pulled off his riding gloves and pressed a finger against the wetness. It came away red. Blood.  
  
The other rider's face was anguished as he lifted an edge that might once have been a collar. "Gold thread," he said quietly. He exchanged a pained look with Elfhelm. They both knew what that meant. The cloak belonged to the king.  
  
"Search the undergrowth," Elfhelm commanded brusquely, not wanting to think about what they might find. Other riders had gathered now. One by one they dismounted and began to move through the trees and then into the thick covering of ferns to their right and left. Still Elfhelm tried to cling to hope. A ruined cloak – even a bloodied one – did not make for a dead king. There was any number of reasons for the cloak to be in such a state. Perhaps Eomer had given it to some unfortunate person who had fallen foul of robbers. Perhaps...  
  
No! His gaze fell on a bulky shape to his right, three-quarters hidden in a patch of dense undergrowth. He tried to deny it. Could not. Half stumbling, he lurched through the undergrowth and then froze at what lay before him amongst the ferns. It was a body of a man judging from the height and bulk. He stumbled closer, feeling nausea rise at the sight of the injuries. Three dark arrows protruded from the dead man's chest. The body was also crisscrossed with sword slashes; some so deep they revealed bone. But worse – much, much worse – an animal had clearly feasted upon it in the night. Elfhelm swallowed hard to stop the nausea turning to sickness as he looked at the torn flesh that had once been a face, but was now totally unrecognisable as being human.  
  
Still he tried to deny the truth. Tried not to see the tattered remains of the richly embroidered tunic. Tried not to recognise the intricate pattern on the leather of the belt at the man's waist. Tried not to look at the strands of blond hair. Tried to tell himself this body was too short or too tall. Too thin. Too fat.  
  
"My Lord?" Fram blundered through the undergrowth towards him. Staggering to a halt, the colour drained from his face. He stared in horror at the body. "Is that...? No!"  
  
"Yes." Elfhelm collapsed to his knees as he finally allowed himself to acknowledge who he was looking at. He felt the agony of grief building inside him, hot and dark, and then suddenly it exploded out of him in a primal scream that tore from his lungs and echoed through the trees. His throat raw, his lungs empty, he could not bring himself to say the words that rank demanded of him.  
  
"My Lord Elfhelm." Fram called his name, his voice desperate, anguished, torn. "You must..."  
  
"No!" He could not. He would not.  
  
For a moment Fram stared at him. "If you will not..." Elfhelm nodded, silent tears running down his face. Fram turned away, his words barely audible over the mournful whisper of the trees. "The king is dead. Long live... the queen."

---------------------  
  
Sleep eluded Erika that night. She had heard many rumours about Galwyn, but until now she had always considered such talk to be mere stories designed to frighten young children into doing their chores without whining. Now she knew the truth. And it was deeply disturbing.  
  
You will tell no one of what you see and hear, Galwyn had said. If you do, it will go badly for you. Erika did not doubt that the threat was genuine now she had seen what Galwyn was capable of. It didn't frighten her though. Nothing that Galwyn could do to her mattered. She had already lost all that she cared about.  
  
She turned her thoughts away from that, and for the hundredth time wondered who it was that Galwyn held locked in her secret cave. A nobleman perhaps? Held for ransom? No, that did not make sense because it was clear Galwyn hated her prisoner enough to enjoy watching him in pain. Revenge, then. There must be some dark story in Galwyn's past that had driven her to this madness. For madness it most definitely was. No sane person would use the dark arts to injure and imprison another human being.  
  
Which bought her back to the question of the prisoner's identity. She suspected he was a warrior - perhaps even a rider in the king's own eored given the genteel way he spoke. She recalled the feel of his muscles beneath her fingers. Yes, he was a man used to bearing the weight of armour, sword and shield. He was skilled in battle too because his body bore few scars. She'd found a thin silver line that ran diagonally across his left shoulder that she'd judged had once been a shallow injury caused by a sharp blade when he was still a youth. There had also been a small circular scar below his right shoulder and beneath which she'd detected a rib that had been splintered. This, she decided, was the obligatory arrow wound that all riders seemed to suffer. All in all, he was relatively unscathed for one who must have fought many battles.  
  
_Help me!_ His silent appeal flashed through her mind again. She'd had no intention of doing anything other than dealing with his immediate needs up to that point of their meeting. Of course, she'd noticed that he was an attractive man, but despite her youthful appearance she was no young girl easily swayed by a handsome face. Her heart had been broken during the war when the man she loved had ridden away to fight for Rohan and failed to return. She had no intention of suffering such pain a second time. Better to be alone. However, she was not entirely made of stone, and there was something about him that had touched her, that had made her want to offer her help.  
  
_I will do what I can._ Erika laughed bitterly at her own words. What could she do? Everyone knew that Galwyn dabbled in the dark arts. Aiding this man would be foolish. Galwyn would be sure to know. Yet, somehow she now felt that his blood would be on her hands as much as on Galwyn's if she simply stood aside and did nothing. And what did it matter if Galwyn did find out. Erika no longer cared for life. In fact, Galwyn would be doing her a favour by bringing her loneliness to an end. She sighed heavily. Perhaps tomorrow she would go in search of wild herbs to replace those she had used of late. Should her wanderings happen to take her near the caves then so be it.

-----------------  
  
Eowyn leapt to her feet as she heard the trumpet blast announcing the return of riders to Edoras. Let it be Eomer. Dear gods, please let it be. She gathered up her skirt and ran from her chamber, Lothiriel hard on her heels. In the Golden Hall, the kitchen staff were setting out food for the evening meal, but they hastily got out of her way as she swept past the tables. Breathless she reached the heavy wooden door, pushed it open assisted by two servants who had immediately stopped what they were doing to aid her, and then stepped out into the chill wind that constantly blew down the valley. Her hair whipped painfully across her face, obscuring her view of the riders below.  
  
"Lothiriel? Do you see him? Is my brother with them?" She squinted down at the horses and riders coming through the gate. Too impatient to wait for a reply, she raced down the steps. And then froze as she saw the raw grief on Elfhelm's face. No! It could not be. Her gaze fell from his face to the body-shaped object that was swathed in several cloaks and draped across the saddle in front of him. Denial formed on her lips even as her legs propelled her forward.  
  
"My lady!" Elfhelm leapt from the saddle and caught her in his arms, preventing her from approaching his horse and its nightmare burden.  
  
She met his gaze, too afraid to ask the question and yet desperately needing to know. The truth was already in his eyes, but she jerked her head away, back to the body, back to the desperate hope that she was wrong.  
  
"My lady," Elfhelm said again, his voice brittle. "We found..." His voice cracked and he sucked in a sharp breath. Pulling himself more upright he started again. "We found him this morning."  
  
"No." The word was barely a whisper as it escaped her lips.  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
"No." She said it louder this time. Tried to pull away from him. "It cannot be."  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
This time he let her go. She stumbled forward. Eomer. Eomer was gone. It could not be. She stared in amazement at the hand reaching towards the robe- swaddled body, and then realised it was her own. She snatched it back. Pressed it to her chest as something inside her froze. The tears that had threatened were suddenly no longer there.  
  
"Eowyn." Elfhelm stepped towards her, but she warded him off with an icy look.  
  
"No!" She turned and began to walk back towards the Great Hall. This wasn't happening. Her mind refused to accept it.  
  
Elfhelm's voice called out to her, anguish in his tone. "Your majesty, please, what would you have us do with his body? Should we take it to the Golden Hall?"  
  
The question, joined as it was to her new title, was like a slap to her face, and suddenly her legs refused to bear her weight. She stumbled forward again, and then fell to her knees. For a long moment she simply gazed up at Meduseld, its tall walls towering over her. Eomer's home. Now his last resting place. She felt something burning in the pit of her stomach, and she opened her mouth as though to retch, but instead a raw, agonised cry suddenly erupted from her lungs and was snatched up by the wind to be carried into the heavens. The truth could no longer be denied. Eomer was dead. Her brother, the last of the family she loved so dearly, had been snatched from her too young, too soon. She buried her face in her hands, and not caring who was watching, gave vent to the raw grief that had just ripped her heart in two.

-----------  
  
Eomer was finding it difficult to keep track of time. Over the past few watches, sleep had claimed him with alarming frequency. He told himself that was a good thing, that it was his body's way of speeding his recovery from the fall. Indeed, each time he awoke the pain in his head and shoulders had lessened. With this awakening even the broken bone in his arm troubled him as no more than a dull ache. Unfortunately, with the physical healing came the unwelcome knowledge that his belly was empty. The small portion of stale bread had done little to satisfy his hunger. Worse, he had drained the jug of water some time ago.  
  
Was that what his captor had planned for him? That he should pass his days in a state of neglect? Thirsty. Hungry. And chilled to the bone. It had not escaped his notice that there was little he could do about it if that were so. No matter how many times he checked his cell, he came to the same conclusion. He was not going to escape without aid.  
  
A sudden movement across the entrance to the cave caught his attention. Moments later Galwyn was standing at the door of his cell. She sneered down at him.  
  
"How far the mighty King of Rohan has fallen. Naked and caged. It is a shame that your subjects cannot see you now."  
  
He tilted his head and met her gaze, pouring as much defiance into his words as he could. "Make the most of the sight. My men will be looking for me. It won't be long before they track me here."  
  
She laughed. "Pray tell me, why would your men search for a dead king?"  
  
"What foolish riddle would you taunt me with now, woman?"  
  
"No riddle, Son of Eomund. Just trickery. By now your men will have found a body in the woods that they will assume to be you."  
  
"No." Eomer breathed out the word in horror, suddenly understanding why his clothes had been taken from him. "You killed someone to make it look like I am dead?" He felt sick at the thought that not only were his friends being duped, but a life had been taken to achieve such a subterfuge.  
  
"I am sure your sister will see to it that the poor soul is buried with pomp and ceremony far beyond that which he might otherwise have received."  
  
The mention of Eowyn sparked his anger, giving him fresh strength. He shot to his feet, clutching the blanket around him with a white-knuckled fist. "You would let her think me dead? What kind of woman are you, that you would let another suffer grief needlessly?"  
  
Galwyn smiled triumphantly, and he immediately regretted his outburst. He'd played right into her hands. She wanted to see him hurt, and she didn't seem to care whether that was physically or by tormenting him through the anguish she was inflicting on Eowyn. He spun away, moved to the back of the cell, and then sat with his back against the wall determined not to give her the satisfaction of any further reaction.  
  
She studied him for a long moment and then huffed out a disappointed breath. "You tire of the game already? How disappointing." She removed the bag that was slung over her shoulder and placed on the table near his cell. From it she pulled out a rough wool tunic and a pair of leggings. "Since I intend for you to be my prisoner for some time, I suppose I had better see that you do not freeze to death." She tossed the clothes through the bars.  
  
Eomer didn't move.  
  
"Dress," she commanded.  
  
Still he didn't move.  
  
Her eyes narrowed. "I have food and drink for you also. But you will receive neither until you dress."  
  
Damn her. He was no plaything for her amusement, but he did not doubt she would happily deny him sustenance if he refused to co-operate. Cursing silently, he climbed to his feet and then scooped up the pants. He turned his back on her, leaned forward so the blanket hung curtain-like across his shoulders, and hurriedly pulled the pants on. The harsh wool wasn't exactly pleasant against his skin, but it was comforting to be modestly dressed again. Turning, he picked up the tunic and pulled it over his head.  
  
She eyed him as though trying to decide if the clothes fit well enough. Apparently satisfied, she said, "You see, taking orders is not so painful after all."  
  
He had his own opinion as to the truth of that, but made no comment.  
  
"Now," she said, returning to the bag. "Move to the front of the cell and put your hands through the bars." She produced a length of rope from the bag.  
  
Eomer eyed it warily. "Why?"  
  
"Questions, questions," she complained. "You must learn to simply do as you are told." She gestured for him to step forward.  
  
With an angry huff he did so.  
  
"Your hands," she commanded, stepping towards him with the rope. "One either side of a bar."  
  
He now guessed what she was planning, and reluctantly did as he was bid. Placing his hands through the bars was a simple action, but it made him feel oddly vulnerable, and it was all he could do not to pull away as she bound his wrists together, ensuring he now had limited freedom to move. Wordlessly she pulled the key to the cell from her pocket, and then retrieved a wooden bucket from behind the barrels. Opening the door, she placed the bucket inside the cell and took the empty jug out. As she turned away to fill the jug from one of the barrels, he cautiously tested his bonds. The rope was secured tightly, though, and he was powerless to do anything except watch. She set the filled jug back inside the cell and locked the door again. Moving back to him, she deftly undid the knots that held him secure, backing away hurriedly the moment he was free.  
  
She gestured disdainfully at the bucket. "For when you need to relieve yourself." She gathered up the bag, turned to go, and then stopped. "I nearly forgot - " She thrust her hand back into the bag and drew out another hunk of stale bread, which she tossed through the bars."Enjoy your meal."  
  
He waited until she was gone, and then with a howl of outrage he kicked the bucket across the cell and cursed colourfully. This situation was unbearable. Surely there had to be something that he could do. Yet his mind refused to come up with a solution. He was trapped. And worse, now he could not even trust to the hope of rescue. If she spoke truth, then everyone believed he was dead - even Eowyn, who he knew would never stop searching for him if she had but the faintest hope of finding him alive.  
  
The flash of temper made his head ache a new, and he despondently moved to the rear of the cell, settling himself against the back wall, the blanket offering an extra layer of insulation between his back and the cold rock. He pulled one of the herbal leaves from the pouch Erika had left him, chewed it quickly and washed it down with a mouthful of water. Then, for want of something better to do, he began to gnaw at the hard bread. It offered very little in the way of nutrition, but that was not his main concern right now. Gazing around at the dark rock walls and the bars that held him captive, he knew that if he did not find a way to escape soon, his situation would quickly drive him to madness. Solitary captivity with no hope of rescue - it was the worst kind of torture he could imagine.


	6. Strange behaviour

_Many, many thanks for all the lovely reviews. It's very encouraging to know people are enjoying the story. :-)_

**Chapter 6 - Strange behaviour**

Ceorl was impatient to begin reaping the rewards of his subterfuge, but he knew the wisdom of biding his time. The new queen of Rohan had shut herself in her chamber and was refusing to see anyone other than the Princess of Dol Amroth. Such a situation could not be allowed to continue, of course, but her new advisers were wary of intruding on her grief too soon. He'd heard Elfhelm arguing that it would do no harm to allow her a day or two to come to terms with her brother's loss. Ceorl suspected the sentiment was warmly welcomed because Eowyn was not alone in her grief. It seemed that none in Edoras wished to face up to the loss of their young king. Well, soon they would have to. Soon they would have a new king and the brief reign of Eomer, Son of Eomund would be consigned to the historical record books where it belonged.  
  
By the afternoon of the second day, he decided he had waited long enough. Power was calling to him and he could no longer resist its siren's call. He wanted it. Needed it. Longed for all of Rohan to know that he, Ceorl, had the intelligence and the strength to rule the country the way it should be ruled. It was his right. And he would not stand in the shadows any longer. Taking care not to be seen, he hid in the hallway outside Eowyn's chamber until he saw the princess leave on an errand. He immediately slipped into the room unannounced. Eowyn was standing by the window, her back to the room.  
  
"My Lady." He bowed extravagantly as she spun towards him, and for the briefest of moments he regretted the hurt he had caused. Her beautiful skin was blotched and her eyes were red-rimmed from crying. Although it was late in the day she was still dressed in her night attire, and her long blonde hair hung in a tangled mess about her face. She seemed like a frail young girl, rather than the strong White Lady of Rohan who had faced down the Witch King.  
  
"What is it, Ceorl?" she asked, apparently too exhausted from her grief to care about the impropriety of his presence.  
  
He straightened up and smiled warmly. "I have come to end your misery over Eomer."  
  
Grief twisted her face afresh at the mention of her brother's name. "What do you mean? How can you end that which is without measure?"  
  
He stepped forward, caught her hand and tried to draw her towards a seat by the fire. "Please, sit a moment."  
  
"No." She pulled away, finally seeming to recognise the situation she was in. "Tell me why you are here."  
  
His sympathy vanished. She was like a young colt that had yet to accept a saddle on its back, a situation he intended to change. "Very well. But from now on, you will do exactly as I ask of you or it will not go well with your brother."  
  
"My brother is dead," she murmured, staring at him as though he were mad.  
  
"No," he said. "Your brother is my prisoner."  
  
"What?" She stepped back, clasping the cold stone window sill with one hand.  
  
He smiled again. "I can imagine what you're feeling. Disbelief. But perhaps also hope."  
  
"Do not tell me what I feel," she snapped. "It is clear you are quite mad." She began to move past him, towards the door.  
  
"If you call the guards, you will be signing his death warrant."  
  
She froze. Then turned slowly back towards him. "My brother's body is lying in the Golden Hall."  
  
"No, my Lady. The body of a stranger with your brother's build and colouring rests in the hall."  
  
Anger sparked in her eyes, but he also saw the uncertainty, and knew that she was snared. "Explain."  
  
"Please, sit." He held out his hand, and this time she did as he requested. He resisted the urge to smile at her compliance. It was such a little thing to take a seat at his bidding, but he knew it was the first step on the road to her complete and utter surrender to him. The thought sent a rush of excitement through his body and the siren call of power thrummed louder in his veins. Pulling up a second chair he sat opposite her. "While we were out hunting, I lured your brother into a trap." He remembered with pleasant triumph the shocked look on Eomer's face when he realised he'd been tricked. "Men loyal to me took the king prisoner while I pretended to have been injured by wild men. Your brother is very much alive, Lady Eowyn. Whether he remains that way depends on you."  
  
She shook her head in bewilderment. "Why should I believe you?"  
  
"I can give you proof," he said, knowing that she desperately wanted his words to be true, even though that truth would inevitably be uncomfortable.  
  
Her eyes narrowed. "What kind of proof?"  
  
"Watch and see." He drew a small pouch from his pocket, and then shook a pale green powder from it into the palm of his hand. "Look into the fire, my lady." Horrified fascination on her face, she did what he asked. Carefully he recited the words his mother had taught him, and then he blew the powder into the flames. There was a loud crack, like hot stone breaking apart.  
  
"Is that all?" she demanded. "You wish to play games with a firecracker?"  
  
"Look!" He gestured towards the flames as they suddenly turned a deep emerald green.  
  
She leaned forward and then gasped. The dark magic had worked. An image had formed in the flames – an image of the king sitting on the floor of a cell, his knees drawn up to his chest and his head bowed. Suddenly, though, he looked up as though conscious that he was being watched. A frown creased his features as puzzlement registered on his face.  
  
"Eomer?" she gasped his name out loud.  
  
Immediately the king jumped to his feet, staring round his prison as though expecting to see her. "Eowyn?" His voice sounded in her chamber as clearly as if he was standing next to her.  
  
"Enough." Ceorl grabbed a jug of water from a table and threw its contents onto the flames, dousing the fire. He turned to her. "Now do you believe me?"  
  
She was trembling, whether from anger or shock he could not tell. Nor did it matter. He knew the bond between the royal siblings. It was their one weakness. A weakness he intended to exploit to the full.  
  
Her arms were wrapped tightly around her chest as she met his gaze, and her tone was tight with reined emotion. "What is it you want of me?"  
  
"Just one simple thing, my queen. Your total obedience."  
  
He climbed to his feet. The Princess of Dol Amroth might return at any moment and he could not risk being found here alone. Not yet, anyway. There was time to put the first link into the chain that would bind Eowyn of Rohan to him, though. He stared down at her, all compassion now buried beneath his ambition. "Tomorrow you will summon me to your chamber on a matter of business. I will tell you more then. In the meantime you will speak to no one of this discussion, do you understand?" Her gaze drifted to the dead fire. "Eowyn, do you understand? You hold your brother's life in your hands."  
  
She looked up at him, a haunted look in her eyes. "Yes. I understand."

-----------------------------  
  
Lothiriel knew something had happened the moment she re-entered the room. The vital spark that fired Eowyn's energy had returned. But there was something more too. There was a strange light in her eyes that Lothiriel was at a loss to explain. All she knew was that it frightened her.  
  
"What's happened?" she asked, setting down the platter of food she'd fetched from the kitchen.  
  
"Nothing." The answer came too quickly. "Why do you ask?"  
  
"You seem..." Lothiriel struggled for the right word but failed to find it. Reluctantly she let it go. "It does not matter. Come and eat."  
  
"Perhaps later," Eowyn said. She paced before the hearth. "Lothiriel, please do not think me rude, but I wish to be alone for awhile."  
  
The request was not entirely surprising, but again Lothiriel felt uneasy that Eowyn would dismiss her now. Something had definitely happened while she'd been absent.  
  
"Of course." She inclined her head politely. "If you need me, send for me. I will come immediately."  
  
"Thank you." Eowyn suddenly crossed the room and grasped her hand. "You are a good friend, Lothiriel. I may have need of such a friend in the days ahead."  
  
"Eowyn..."  
  
"Please, for now, I would be alone."  
  
A deep sense of unease settled on Lothiriel's shoulders, but she was at a loss as to how else to draw Eowyn out. Eowyn was, after all, no longer just her friend. She was a queen and as such her requests demanded obedience. Reluctantly, Lothiriel returned the pressure of Eowyn's fingers with a squeeze of her own, hoping the simple gesture would convey what she could not put into words. Unable to do anything more, she turned to the door.  
  
"Lothiriel."  
  
"Yes?" She spun back, hoping Eowyn had changed her mind about keeping her own counsel.  
  
Eowyn's face was once again devoid of emotion. "Could you ask someone to come and re- set the fire? It seems to have gone out."

------------------  
  
A child with a fever kept Erika in the village for three days, but the face of the prisoner haunted her dreams each night. She tried not to feel responsible for him, but she could not shut her mind to the knowledge that he was there, and that he'd begged for her help. When finally the fever broke, she instructed the mother on how to continue the child's care, and then she packed herself a meal and set off with her herb basket.  
  
She had a good memory for the way the land lay, and although Galwyn had attempted to confuse her by travelling a circuitous route to the caves she was fairly confident that she could find the location again. Conscious, though, that Galwyn might have set a watch on her she first set off in the direction of one of her most favourite collecting points. Feverfew grew there and since her supply was now depleted, it was the perfect excuse for leaving the village.  
  
Three hours later her basket was more than half full of common herbs and she cautiously began to wind her way towards the craggy hills with their caves and gullies. She feared that Galwyn might also have set a guard on the cave, but as she approached from a secluded ridge she discovered that was not so. Odd. Did Galwyn not think anyone would be searching for the nobleman she held prisoner?  
  
For a while, she simply watched the cave entrance. No one entered or left. Realising she had no way to discover if the prisoner was alone other than to enter the cave, she made her way down to the entrance and peered cautiously into the gloom. Nothing but silence met her.  
  
Her heart was pounding as she stepped into the shadows. Slowly she made her way past the dead fire, the chairs and the barrels of provisions. Her eyes quickly became accustomed to the dark and as she reached the bars of the cell she realised he had been watching her approach. For a long moment she simply stared at him. He was sitting on the floor at the back of the cell, his long legs drawn up to his chest and held in a protective clasp. Galwyn had provided him with clothes since last Erika had been here, but the thin wool garments were hardly suitable attire for one she was convinced was of noble birth. The pants barely reached half way down his calves, revealing a stretch of muscled leg and bare feet. By contrast the tunic he wore was several sizes too large and was almost falling off one shoulder. Both items were more suitable for use as rags than clothing.  
  
Suddenly he pushed himself to his feet and moved to the bars with a swiftness that startled her. Instinctively she stepped back even though she knew he could not reach her.  
  
"You came alone?" he demanded, peering into the gloom behind her.  
  
She nodded, stepping forward again so she could assess his condition. "How is your arm?"  
  
He glanced at the splint as though he had forgotten the injury. "It pains me less each day."  
  
"That is good. And your head?"  
  
"You have to help me," he said, clutching tightly at the bars. "Please."  
  
She glanced nervously over her shoulder. Although she wasn't afraid of Galwyn, she had no desire to end up joining this man in his prison. "Help you how?"  
  
He shook the door of the cell. "The key..."  
  
"Galwyn no doubt keeps it on her person. I am skilled at picking herbs, not pockets."  
  
"Then you must ride to Edoras. Tell my men where I am."  
  
"Edoras?" She peered at his face as though his identity might suddenly be revealed. "That's the home of the king."  
  
"Yes," he said impatiently. "My home."  
  
She stared at him, taking in the proprietary way he had just laid claim to the royal residence. Then suddenly the clues came together and she gasped in surprise. "That cannot be. You cannot be Eomer, King of Rohan."  
  
He glanced ruefully round at his surroundings. "I know that may seem hard to believe, but it is the truth."  
  
"Word that there was a new king reached us some time ago," she murmured, not adding that the passing of a crown from one man to another seemed of little relevance when there were day-to-day worries about whether there was food enough for all.  
  
"Erika, you have to go to Edoras. Speak with my sister, Eowyn."  
  
The words blurred into an incomprehensible rush of similar sounding syllables as she tried to understand what was going. Was it possible that he really was the king? She'd had no doubt that he was a nobleman. So why not the most noble of all? He was the right age to be the new king. And it was said Eomer, King of Rohan and previously Third Marshall of the Mark, was a skilled warrior. She had seen his body, seen how few scars he bore. That was either evidence that he had significant ability on the battlefield or that he was a coward who kept to the rear. Since he did not seem like a man who allowed fear to control his actions, that led her to the frightening conclusion that he was indeed speaking the truth. That no matter how bizarre the idea, he was the king. And in that case...  
  
"Forgive me," she stammered, dropping into what she hoped was a curtsey.  
  
He stared at her as though she was mad. "What in the name of the gods are you doing?"  
  
She straightened up, heat burning her cheeks. "I'm sorry, sire. We have little reason to practice bows and curtsies this far from your court."  
  
In response, he slammed his hands against the bars. "Do you really think I care about court protocol?"  
  
Heat burned her face as she realised her stupidity. "Sorry, but it is not every day that I find myself in the presence of a king."  
  
Instantly regret crossed his face. "No, I am the one who should apologise. I am not myself." He spun away, muttering something about already having proof that he was half-crazed, then turned back. "Shall we just – Whoa!" He grabbed at the bars as he lost his balance and almost fell. Regaining his feet, he swallowed hard and refocused on her.  
  
She stepped forward again, concerned for him. "What's wrong? Is it your head?"  
  
"It's nothing. I'm fine."  
  
Did he think her a fool? She fixed him with the look she normally reserved for difficult children. "A grown man does not nearly fall for no reason. Tell me what ails you."  
  
He glowered at her, clearly reluctant to speak.  
  
"Well?" she demanded. He may be the king, but she was a healer and not about to allow a man's stubbornness to keep her from doing what she was good at.  
  
"It is nought but hunger that ails me," he snapped, as though shamed into admitting to some dark weakness. "I cannot remember the last time I ate a proper meal."  
  
"Galwyn has not given you food?"  
  
"Nothing but stale bread, and little enough of that."  
  
"Why did you not say?" she demanded, even though she could guess the answer. The king was a proud man, used to relying on his own strength and abilities. She pulled her cloth-wrapped lunch from her basket, quickly unwrapped it and held it out to him. "Here. I'm afraid it is not much." Indeed, the portion of bread and cheese was barely adequate for her own needs, let alone a well-built man who was half-starved.  
  
"I cannot take your meal," he protested.  
  
"Don't be ridiculous," she snapped, thrusting it at him. "Eat."  
  
He hesitated for one more moment, his gaze transfixed by the food, then he reached for it. "Thank you." He bit into the cheese and gave a soft groan that she assumed indicated the pleasure of having food in his mouth. "Thank you," he mumbled again, as he chewed.  
  
She glanced around the cave, then suddenly realised she could probably offer him more than her scant provisions. Moving to the nearest barrel, she prised the heavy wooden lid from it. Dried meat. Perfect. Grabbing a chunk as large as her fist, she pushed it through the bars to him. He smiled gratefully, but shook his head as she reached for more.  
  
"Take some for yourself if you will, but Galwyn will know someone has been here if you give me more than I can eat in one go, and hungry though I am, it will take me a while to chew through this." As though to demonstrate the meaning of his words, he tore at the hard meat with his teeth, pulling free little more than a few fibrous shreds.  
  
He was right of course, but it angered her to think of him going hungry when there was ample food just a few strides away. Reluctantly she put the lid back on the barrel and turned to him. "Tell me how else I can help."  
  
"Ride to Edoras," he said. "Tell them I am alive and where they will find me."  
  
"I cannot ride for I do not have a horse. I will, however, gladly walk if you will tell me the way." She frowned as she thought through what she was offering to do. "There is one problem, though. If they think you dead, how will I persuade them otherwise?"  
  
He chewed thoughtfully. "I will tell you something that only I could know. That should be proof enough that you have spoken with me." The excitement in his eyes suddenly faded. "Erika, you know that Galwyn will try to stop you reaching Edoras if she was to discover your purpose."  
  
She stared at him, surprised by his concern for her well-being. "The danger is irrelevant. You are the king, and so may command anything of me."  
  
"If there were another way..." He did not finish the sentence, but the frustration on his face was clear.  
  
"There is not," she said firmly, hoping the truth of that would ease his discomfort at what he was asking of her. She glanced over her shoulder, and realised the light was beginning to fade. "It grows late. I will return tomorrow with more food, and I will also bring parchment and ink that you may draw me a map."  
  
"Thank you."  
  
She resisted the urge to attempt another curtsey, but it simply did not feel right to just walk out of his presence, even if he was dressed in rags and caged behind iron bars. Hoping he wouldn't object, she bowed her head to him, then snatched up her basket and hurried from the cave.

------------------  
  
Elfhelm glowered at Ceorl. The young rider was seated next to the queen, an entirely inappropriate position as far as Elfhelm was concerned. He said nothing, though. Ceorl was there at the queen's bidding, and it was not his place to question her choice of advisors, at least not to her face. The Princess of Dol Amroth was also present, although for what purpose Elfhelm could not imagine.  
  
He bowed as Eowyn turned her attention to him and held out a rolled parchment to him.  
  
"Send a rider to Gondor," she commanded softly. "They must be told of our loss and given the opportunity to pay their respects at my brother's funeral."  
  
Her words were like a sword thrust to his heart. He still could not truly comprehend that Eomer was dead. That, after all they had been through together, he had lost his friend and king to a band of wildmen while out hunting. His eyes drifted to Ceorl as he stepped forward to take the letter. The rider met his gaze coolly and Elfhelm felt a chill run down his spine. Something was definitely amiss. If only he could work out what it was.  
  
He backed away, bowed again to the queen and turned to go.  
  
"Wait, Elfhelm, there is another task."  
  
"Yes, my lady?" He spun round and found she was holding out another scroll.  
  
"I would have you deliver this to Lord Faramir."  
  
"Of course." He took hold of one end, but she did not release it into his hand. Her eyes held his, her gaze penetrating. "My lady?"  
  
She glanced towards the princess and then back at him. "You should be aware that the Prince of Ithilien is unlikely to welcome the news carried in this letter."  
  
"I understand," he said. Faramir and Eomer had formed a close friendship since the end of the war. The Prince would be devastated at the news of Eomer's death.  
  
"No, you do not," Eowyn said. "The letter contains news other than the loss of Eomer."  
  
Suddenly Ceorl was on his feet. He snatched the parchment from Eowyn's hand. "We did not discuss this course of action," he snarled.  
  
Barely able to believe his eyes, Elfhelm's hand dropped to his sword. How dare Ceorl treat the queen with such disrespect? Before he could act, though, Eowyn had snatched the letter back. "I will not allow Faramir to come to Edoras and be made a laughing stock."  
  
"You will do..." Ceorl began, then abruptly stopped, his face turning red with barely restrained anger. "Are you sure this is wise, your majesty?" he said tightly. "Have you truly considered the consequences of such an action?"  
  
Eowyn turned and fixed her gaze on Elfhelm. "Do I not rule here?" she demanded.  
  
"Of course you do," Elfhelm stuttered, uncertain whether she really expected a reply and confused as to why she asking the question of him, rather than Ceorl. His fingers curled reflexively around the hilt of his sword.  
  
Ceorl glanced at Elfhelm, fury in his eyes, but then he bowed his head and once again addressed Eowyn. "Forgive me, your majesty. It is merely concern for you that makes me speak so boldly." He sat down again, his lips a tight white line.  
  
Eowyn turned back to Elfhelm and held out the parchment once again. "This informs the Prince of Ithilien that I have reconsidered my decision to marry him." She released it into Elfhelm's hand. Shocked he stared down at it.  
  
The princess leapt to her feet. "Eowyn! Are you mad?"  
  
A sad look crossed the queen's face. "No, not mad." She drew in a deep breath. "Rohan has lost much of late. Too much. Since I am the last of the House of Eorl, it is only right that I should wed a man of my own country. Rohan needs a pure heir – one with nothing but Rohirric blood in his veins. Faramir will understand."  
  
"I cannot believe my ears," Lothiriel said. "What nonsense is this you speak? You love Faramir. And he you."  
  
"The princess is right, my queen." Elfhelm finally found his voice. "Such a sacrifice is not necessary. The people will accept Faramir as your consort. I am sure of it."  
  
"My mind is made up. As soon as it is appropriate, I will choose a husband from our own kind." She gave Ceorl a dark look.  
  
"That is ridiculous," the princess said.  
  
Eowyn pushed herself to her feet, anger flashing in her eyes. "Perhaps if it is so ridiculous, you would prefer not to remain in Rohan. You did come solely to woo my brother at the request of your father, did you not? Let us then end this façade of friendship between us."  
  
"Eowyn..." Shock drained the colour from the princess's face.  
  
"Elfhelm," the queen snapped. "I would appreciate it if you would accompany the Princess of Dol Amroth on her journey back to Gondor." She sat down again, her face cold and emotionless. "This audience is over. You can leave. Both of you."


	7. A painful lesson

_A/N – Just a few brief lines of gratitude to those who have been so wonderfully generous in their reviews. Then on with the story.  
  
Viggomaniac: Thank you for the lovely review. I hope I don't disappoint in the future.  
  
Naughty-by-Nature: Sorry you had problems reviewing. Thanks for taking the trouble to find a way round it. I'm afraid Ceorl is even more despicable in this chapter.  
  
Lady scribe of avandell: Thanks for all the great reviews. Will Elfhelm and Lothiriel go to Gondor? Hmmm – we'll see g  
  
Eokat: Never amazes me how quickly you manage to review. Glad you're along for the ride.  
  
Athelas63: Don't let go of that thread you're hanging by.  
  
To everyone else: Thank you. Thank you. Your reviews brighten my days no end._  
  
**Chapter 7 – A painful lesson**  
  
Something was wrong. Very wrong. Lothiriel stared up at the ceiling of her bedchamber and replayed the events of the day one more time. No matter how she tried to explain it to herself, no matter how often she told her it was madness bought on by grief, she found herself unable to accept that there was not some darker force at work behind Eowyn's strange behaviour. Frustrated she pushed the bedcovers aside and slipped from the bed. She knew that Elfhelm would be waiting to escort her home at first light. However, she simply could not imagine leaving Rohan without at least attempting to uncover the mystery surrounding her sudden dismissal from Eowyn's favour.  
  
Moving to the door she opened it and peered out into the dimly lit hallway. Silence greeted her. Heart pounding, she slowly made her way to Eowyn's chamber, praying that she would not be seen. Moments later she froze against the wall. A shadowy figure was watching over the queen's doorway. How foolish of her to think that the queen would not have protection through the night? Now what was she to do? Every sense warned her that it would be unwise to be seen entering the queen's bedroom, and asking permission to do so would be even worse.  
  
She would have to find another way in. Through Eowyn's window perhaps? She had always been good at climbing trees. How difficult would it be to scale the wooden walls of the Golden Hall? There was only one way to find out. She did an abrupt turn and collided with a solid mass of masculine flesh. A heavy hand pressed over her mouth, preventing her from crying out, her arms were pinned to her side, and then, before she could even think about fighting back, she was dragged into the nearest chamber.  
  
"My apologies," a deep voice growled. The hand slowly moved from her mouth and the hold on her arms eased. Terrified she spun round to face her attacker and found herself looking up into the face of Lord Elfhelm. He gave her an apologetic, if somewhat rueful, look. "I believe we were heading for the same destination, and no doubt for the same purpose," he said.  
  
"The queen?" she asked, desperately trying to calm her breathing. Damn the man. He'd all but frightened her to death.  
  
"Aye, the queen."  
  
She brushed away imaginary creases from the front of her nightgown, smoothed her hair, and tried to pretend that she was perfectly at ease with being abducted from a hallway in the middle of the night. "I take it that you too found her behaviour this afternoon most odd?"  
  
"Odd is not the word I would use," Elfhelm said with a scowl. "I'll wager a year's coin that she was not acting from free will although for the life of me I cannot imagine what hold anyone might have over the White Lady."  
  
"Whatever it is, it is strong for sure. I have seen her with Lord Faramir, and I cannot believe anything short of a life or death situation would force her to give him up."  
  
Elfhelm studied her face a moment. "The sooner we uncover the truth, the better, yes? And since our access to the queen is blocked, perhaps we can assist one another."  
  
"I had thought to climb the walls..."  
  
Elfhelm gave a soft chuckle. "Had you now. I would wish you well in such a venture, but I think there is an easier way for us to gain an audience. One less likely to result in you breaking your neck."  
  
Indignant at his amused dismissal of her suggestion, she raised her eyebrow in question.  
  
He continued. "One of us will create a diversion while the other gains access to the queen."  
  
She nodded, accepting the plan had logic. "Very well. You distract the guard and I will slip into Eowyn's chamber."  
  
"With all due respect, my lady, I believe it would be easier for you to distract the guard while..."  
  
"My Lord Elfhelm, I think decorum dictates it would be wiser for me to be alone with the queen in the middle of the night." Lothiriel fixed him with a stern gaze, and he huffed out his reluctant acceptance.  
  
"Very well."  
  
She watched as he strode across the chamber and yanked open the door of a closet. "What are you doing?"  
  
"Eomer has –" He drew in a sharp breath and then continued gruffly. "Eomer _had_ a taste for Gondorian brandy."  
  
A shiver slid down Lothiriel's spine as she suddenly realised they were in the king's sitting room. Glancing round she quickly absorbed the details – a table and chairs by the hearth, another table against the wall bearing pen and ink, and a single large closet. It was stark, masculine, and lacking any indication that it was used as anything other than the fulfilment of duty. She found it rather sad that the king's personal space should be so functional.  
  
"Ah! Here it is." Elfhelm pulled a dark brown bottle from the closet and drew the stopper from its neck. His expression darkened with sorrow as he murmured something in his own language and then swallowed a large mouthful of the alcohol. Lothiriel guessed his words were a salute to his dead friend and king, but still she could not comprehend his sudden desire to drink.  
  
"What are you doing?"  
  
"Do not fear, my lady. I merely wish to give the appearance of drunkenness." He slopped brandy down the front of his tunic. "There, I believe that will suffice. Are you ready?"  
  
She nodded, and watched in amazement as Elfhelm lurched unsteadily towards the door. Had she not known he had swallowed only one mouthful, she would have believed him well into the grip of drink.  
  
"Do not fail me, princess," he said, and then he stumbled out into the corridor, a torrent of slurred speech tumbling from his lips and the bottle swinging wildly in his hand.  
  
Hidden in the doorway, she watched as he collided with the guard, spilling drink over the man's tunic. She caught him mumble something about Eomer and then, to her dismay, saw the Marshall break down in tears. The act of drunken distress was so realistic she had little doubt that Elfhelm was in fact drawing on his own deep love for his lost king, and she suddenly found herself struggling to keep her own tears at bay. She even felt sorry for the guard, who looked both bereft and uncomfortable as the Marshall sobbed in his arms.  
  
It only took a few moments for Elfhelm to gather the guard into a brotherly embrace, and the two men staggered off down the corridor, the guard no doubt eager to offload the apparently distraught Marshall onto someone else.  
  
This was it. Taking a deep breath, she did not waste the opportunity Elfhelm had created. Sprinting down the corridor, she opened Eowyn's door and silently slipped into the chamber.

"Lothiriel?" Eowyn had heard the disturbance outside her door and had been desperately trying to decide whether to go out to Elfhelm. Now relief flooded over her as she looked at the princess. "Thank the gods. Did anyone see you enter my chamber?"  
  
"No, Lord Elfhelm created a distraction. Eowyn, what is going on?"  
  
Relief that she suddenly had an ally stole Eowyn's strength and she sank into the chair by the fire.  
  
"Eowyn?" Lothiriel was at her side in a moment, concern knitting her brows together.  
  
"I am well," Eowyn said, gathering her thoughts. She grasped Lothiriel hand, grateful for the feel of warm flesh and blood. "I am so sorry about this afternoon. It was the only way I could think to alert you, but I was so afraid that instead it might simply alienate you." She drew in a shaky breath and managed a weak smile. "Thank goodness for your intelligence, my dear Lothiriel."  
  
Lothiriel dropped to her knees beside the chair. "Pray tell me everything, Eowyn."  
  
Fortified by the sense that she was finally able to take action against those who plotted against her Eowyn nodded. But where to start? She had been told so many contradicting things, had seen so many strange sights. She drew in a deep breath, calmed herself and then announced the one thing of which she was most sure. "My brother is not dead."  
  
"What?" Lothiriel's eyes widened in sceptical surprise.  
  
"You must believe me," Eowyn said.  
  
"But we – You saw –" She shook her head as though to clear her thoughts, and then began again. "Eowyn, the riders returned with his body."  
  
"No. They returned with a body. A mutilated body that was recognisable only by the clothes it was dressed in." She shivered at the thought that some poor soul had been killed to create the sick evidence of her brother's death. "It was not Eomer. He is being held captive. His life will be forfeit if I do not do exactly as I am told by Ceorl."  
  
"That young rider who was with you this afternoon?" Lothiriel raised her eyebrows in shock.  
  
"I know. With his mild manners and pleasant ways he fooled me too. He has set his sights on the throne of Rohan. And he intends to gain it by marrying me."  
  
"And if you refuse, Eomer will be killed?"  
  
"Exactly."  
  
"And once you are married?"  
  
Eowyn glanced towards the door and shook her head impatiently. "I do not know what he plans, Lothiriel. All I know is that my brother is alive somewhere. And you and Elfhelm must find him!" She grabbed Lothiriel's hand. "When you leave Edoras in the morning, do not ride south. Rather turn north. Perhaps in the woods where they were hunting, Elfhelm will be able to find some clue as to where Eomer has been taken."  
  
"Is that likely?"  
  
Eowyn refused to admit what she knew was the truth - that it was extremely unlikely that Eomer's kidnappers would've been foolish enough to leave a trail. "It is my only hope."  
  
"And if we fail?"  
  
Lothiriel's words were like a knife in Eowyn's heart. "If you fail, my dear Lothiriel, I will have to choose between saving my brother or saving Rohan from falling into the hands of an evil man." She looked into the dark red embers that glowed silently in the grate. "I think we both know what Eomer would have me do." 

----------------------------  
  
Ceorl watched with cold satisfaction as the Princess of Amroth rode through the gate of Edoras with Elfhelm as her side. He was well aware that Elfhelm had distrusted him from the outset. Soon, very soon, he would need to find a way to dispose of the man permanently. For now, though, it was enough that he had been dispatched to Gondor. As for the Princess - his eyes narrowed as he traced her passage away from Edoras - Eowyn's dismissal of the friendship had been impressive, and certainly the kitchen staff were quite convinced that there had been a falling out between the two women. Now she was on her way to Gondor, it mattered not if Lothiriel was suspicious of Eowyn's motives. By the time she reached anyone who might listen, both the White Lady and the Golden Hall would be under his control, and her tittle-tattle would appear to nothing more than a foolish fancy.  
  
All was going exactly as planned - except for one thing. Anger flared again as he recalled the way Eowyn had calming announced she would no longer be marrying the Prince of Ithilien. It was true that during the time he had outlined his plan for their future he had not thought to specifically forbid her from mentioning it, but that she had done so was proof that a spark of rebellion still dwelt in her heart, that she still believed that she could somehow turn the situation to her advantage.  
  
And then there was the letter. He had been able to intercept it and read for himself that it did indeed contain nothing more than a curt ending of her betrothal to Faramir, but he was still suspicious that she hoped to gain something more from its delivery. It was clear he was going to have to watch her far more carefully than he had anticipated. First, though, he would drive home the lesson that there were dark consequences for disobedience.  
  
As the wooden gates of Edoras closed, he turned and headed back into the Golden Hall, striding through the hallways as though he already owned them. On arriving at her chamber, he entered without knocking.  
  
She jerked away from the window, her beautiful face twisting into a scowl at the sight of him. "Do even common manners escape you now?" she demanded.  
  
He slammed the door shut behind him in response, strode across the room and grabbed her wrist. "I will display my manners when you display respect," he said.  
  
She tried to pull free of his grip, but failed. "What are you doing? Let go of me!"  
  
He dragged her towards the fireplace, releasing her once they stood before the glowing embers. "You do not seem to fully understand your brother's predicament."  
  
She paled as she rubbed at her bruised wrist. "On the contrary, I am painfully aware that my brother is your prisoner. Have I not done everything that you've asked of me and more?"  
  
"Exactly, my lady. You have chosen to do more than I asked." He glared at her as he thrust a poker into the coals, stirring up the fire. "You spoke out of turn yesterday." His anger returned with the heat of the fire. "And you wrote a letter to the Prince of Ithilien. For what purpose, my lady? Do you think he loves you enough to fight for you? That he will come to Rohan to save you from me?" He grew bolder when she did not answer. "Faramir is nothing but a shadow of a man. He will accept your dismissal of him without question, just as he always accepted that he was second best in his father's eyes."  
  
"No." She finally came back at him. "He is a good man. Courageous and honourable. He is worth a thousand of you."  
  
He gave the coals a viscious prod, making the flames dance even higher. "Then I am right. Despite what I told you about being obedient, despite what I said about accepting your fate, you still believe you can thwart me."

Eowyn's wide-eyed gaze flickered from his face to the fire, and then back. He saw the calculating look on her face. Saw her decide to humour him. "No, you are wrong, I sought merely to spare him embarrassment. I meant no harm."  
  
His anger sparked afresh. "Unfortunately for your brother I don't believe you. Perhaps after this little demonstration you will think even more carefully before you speak or act or think to make a fool of me."  
  
"What demonstration? Ceorl?" She gasped as he threw a handful of powder into the fire, causing the flames to once again turn emerald green. Her brother's image once again appeared. He was sitting on the floor of his cell and, as before, he suddenly climbed to his feet. This time, though, his attention was focused on something beyond the bars that caged him.  
  
She flinched as Ceorl caught her arm, his bony fingers digging into her flesh.  
  
"Do not call out or it will go worse for him," he hissed.  
  
Eowyn glanced at Ceorl, confused by his words, but almost immediately her attention was seized by the unfolding scene in the fire. Three large men stepped into the cell, locking the door behind them. In the green flames it was impossible to tell the colouring of the men's hair, but the one in the centre was much darker than the other two. He was taller and broader too.  
  
Eomer's voice drifted in the smoke, his tone tense. "What do you want?"  
  
"We have a message to deliver," the middle man said.  
  
Eomer frowned. "I don't understand."  
  
"You don't need to," the man replied. He jerked his head in signal to his companions, who immediately moved in on Eomer, each grasping one of his arms before he had time to react. He groaned as his splinted arm was yanked sharply backwards.  
  
Eowyn's free hand flew to her mouth and she bit down on a knuckle as she watched her brother desperately trying to maintain his dignity in the face of an unprovoked assault. She glanced desperately towards Ceorl, finally guessing what was about to unfold. Wary of his warning not to call out, she kept her voice low, barely louder than a whisper. "Please, this is not necessary."

He pressed a finger to her lips, silencing her. "This would not have been necessary had you but thought of your brother yesterday."  
  
A pained grunt from the direction of the fire pulled Eowyn's attention back. Horrified she saw Eomer was now bent over, wheezing for breath as he hung between his captors. The tall man rubbed casually at the knuckles of his right hand.  
  
Eowyn felt sick. She'd thought she was being clever yesterday and instead... She flinched as Eomer's tormentors dragged him upright and his attacker moved in to deliver a second blow. "Please, Ceorl, stop this!"  
  
He was watching the fire and did not bother to look at her as he replied. "Even if I could, I would not."  
  
Eowyn turned away as Eomer doubled over again, a fist to his stomach stealing his breath from him. Ceorl caught her arm and pulled her back round. "You will watch," he hissed. "And you will be grateful that no permanent damage is inflicted on your brother - this time."  
  
She fought back tears as Eomer was struck a third time. She had known from the moment Ceorl had made his demands clear that she might have to choose between her brother and her country, but she had not foreseen the possibility of being forced to watch the consequence of her decision. Every blow that Eomer suffered was far worse than anything she could have imagined, far worse than fighting in a battle and seeing the men around her being wounded or killed. This was personal. And she could not help but feel she was directly responsible.  
  
Another blow was delivered, and this time Eomer's captors let him drop to his knees. She bit down on her lip as the punch was followed up by a sharp back handed slap that knocked him to the ground. A long moment passed as everyone stared at the unmoving body sprawled face down on the cold, rock floor of the cell, then the tall man prodded him in the ribs with a booted foot. Still Eomer didn't move.  
  
The man snorted in disgust. "Seems I hit him too hard that time." Callously he turned away, leading the others out of the cell.  
  
Eowyn jumped as the coals suddenly hissed, spitting steam and robbing her of the image of her unconscious brother. At her side, Ceorl set the empty water jug back on the table.  
  
"Don't make me repeat the lesson," he said coldly. "Next time they won't stop when he passes out." And with that he turned and left.  
  
She sank into the chair by the fire, buried her face in her hands and let her tears come. She should've been more careful. Should've found a better way to communicate with Lothiriel. Eomer's suffering was all her fault and the guilt she felt was worse than anything she had ever experienced. Worse even than watching her uncle's will slowly being stolen from him by Wormtongue's dark magic. Yet what else could she have done? Surely Eomer would understand? Yet knowing that he would did not ease her pain any more than she could ease his. Their only hope was the two people now riding away from Edoras, and silently she prayed that Lothiriel and Elfhelm would be successful.  
  
For both Eomer's sake.  
  
And her own.


	8. A new day

_Once again, thank you for all the wonderful reviews. I'm thrilled people are enjoying the story. Apologies for no individual replies this time. I had problems uploading last night, and now I need to walk the dogs and dash to work. So, on we go..._

**Chapter 8 - A new day**

Elfhelm held his tongue as they rode away from Edoras, even though he longed to ask the princess what she had learnt the previous evening. When he had caught her eye earlier, she had given him a warning look, and then turned away. He had taken heed. Ceorl was watching them, and the unease that had pricked between his shoulders on that tragic day in the wood had immediately returned like a knife blade. For all the young rider bore the mark of an arrow in his flesh as proof that he too had suffered at the hands of the wild men, Elfhelm was still unable to shake the notion that something was amiss. Something more than just the gut-wrenching ache of Eomer's loss.

Now he bided his time as he let his horse walk patiently behind the princess's guards. There were two to the front. Two to the rear. He, the only Rohirrim, rode at her side. Behind them, riding with the wagon, came the princess's two maids. He glared at the backs of the men. Were they to be trusted, these men of Dol Amroth? He sighed. Perhaps more so than an unknown Rohirric face in these dark days.

They walked for an hour, by which time the Golden Hall of Edoras was no longer visible. Elfhelm was just beginning to think he might burst with the need to know what had taken place the previous evening when, at last, the princess ordered her guards to move ahead so they would not overhear her conversation.

"My Lord, my deepest apologies for keeping silent these long leagues. The news I bear is of too much importance to risk speaking it where there was any danger that we might be overheard. Indeed, as you can see, I choose not to share this even with those to whom I entrust my life." Lothiriel's eyes were grave as she looked at him. "When I tell you what I have learnt, I would ask that you keep your horse at a steady pace and your face turned towards Gondor, for even the wind may have eyes."

"I doubt anything that you can tell me will be shock. I have lived through too many dark days and seen deeds enough that have turned my stomach," Elfhelm replied gruffly. "Now, pray tell me quickly, what black spell has been cast over the queen that she behaves so?"

"No spell, my Lord, but simply the age-old weapon of a kinsman held hostage."

Elfhelm shook his head confused. "The queen no longer has any kin."

"That is what Ceorl would have us believe - would have you believe."

"I don't understand."

Lothiriel drew in a deep breath and fixed her gaze on the horizon. "My Lord, Eomer is not dead."

"Not dead? What madness is this? I saw with my own eyes..." Despite himself, he twisted round in his saddle to look at her.

"Elfhelm, please."

"Forgive me." He straightened and attempted to appear calm, despite the pounding of his heart in his chest. "But what you are asking me to believe..."

"What you saw was but a subterfuge to make you believe that which is not true. Trust me, my Lord Elfhelm, your king still lives. What is more, Eowyn begs of us to do all in power to both ensure his continued existence and his release from captivity."

"Eomer is alive." Elfhelm whispered the statement, longing to believe it so and yet barely able to comprehend that the words were coming from his own lips, let alone that they could be true.

"Yes, though I can give you no proof save Eowyn's testimony."

Alive. Elfhelm rolled the word around his mind, testing it against his emotions. Yes. It felt right. Like a well-worn tunic. And it made sense of all the tiny things that had clung to him like burrs. The king foolishly chasing after the wild men alone. Eomer not just losing his life in a senseless fight, but being mutilated beyond recognition. The slightly too-heavy weight of the dead body across his saddle. And the queen's behaviour. No, not the queen. The White Lady was not queen. Not if Eomer lived still.

"Elfhelm?"

He glanced towards her, saw the concerned look on her face.

"Are you well?" she asked.

He suddenly realised that a single tear was tracking down his cheek. He dashed it away. Pretended it was the wind in his eyes. But he could not deny the truth in his heart that it was a tear of joy. Eomer lived. His king and his friend was alive and... His rapture ended abruptly as the rest of Lothiriel's words finally sunk through.

"I am very well," he said harshly. "Which is more than will be true of those who are holding my king for hostage when I get my hands around their filthy necks. What would the White Lady have us do to aid her brother? Does she know where he is being held? And by whom?"

"She believes he is being held beneath ground. There are caves, are there not, to the north of the woods you hunted in?"

"Aye. So pray tell me why we are still riding south towards Gondor?"

"Because Eowyn feared that we might be watched. Have you seen any sign that there may be eyes upon us, Lord Elfhelm?"

"None, your highness, even though I have kept watch for exactly such a thing."

Lothiriel blew out a long breath. "Good. Let us hope that is so, for true or not, we must act. Do you think we have come far enough south to now not draw attention should we turn north and circle around Edoras to the west?"

"Aye, far enough that one man and a horse will not be noticed."

Lothiriel bristled. "And what of a man, a woman and two horses?"

Elfhelm snorted. "You cannot be serious, my lady. Such a mission is not for the likes of - "

"Of a princess?" she snapped, eyes flashing dangerously. "Eowyn bid me aid her brother, and aid him I will."

"My lady - "

"Lord Elfhelm, I have no doubt you have many skills that I do not. Strength of arm. Skill with sword and arrow. The eyes and ears of a tracker. However, I sense that other talents may also be required if we are to see Eomer restored to his throne. I would ask you to trust me in this. And to accept that you will not be riding to his rescue alone."

She spoke with such authority, Elfhelm's many years of practicing unquestioning loyalty to the crown of Rohan momentarily stole his ability to argue . By the time he found his voice, she was already giving orders to her servants. It was clear that the guards were not at all happy with her decision to send them on to Dol Amroth without her, but in the face of her grim determination they also had little choice but to obey.

Finally she drew alongside him again. "Since they know nothing of where we are going or what we are planning, they will not speak of it." She shivered. "Even under duress."

Elfhelm twisted in his saddle as he thought of letters that he had dispatched the previous evening, letters that were even now travelling towards Gondor. "We must send word to King Elessar at once."

"No. We cannot. A single misplaced word could cost Eomer his life. No one must know that he still lives until we are sure that he is once again a free man."

"Your highness – "Elfhelm opened his mouth to protest. The sharp pain of believing that Eomer was dead was still fresh and raw. To knowingly inflict such hurt on the King of Gondor - it was almost more than he could bear. Cursing softly, he did not finish the sentence. "You are right, much though it pains me that others will mourn for no reason."

"Better to mourn falsely than to unwittingly be the cause of Eomer's death," Lothiriel said. She leaned over and squeezed Elfhelm's arm. "King Elessar will understand."

"And what of your cousin, my Lady? Will the White Lady's letter not break his heart?"

Lothiriel's face was grim. "It is a dangerous game that Eowyn plays. She risks the love of my cousin in order to protect him. She hopes the letter will make him stay away from Rohan and the danger of being used as another pawn against her."

"A dangerous game indeed. And from the look on your face, I would say that you do not believe the prince will stay away."

She hesitated. "My cousin has changed much since the war. I would not try to foretell his actions. But what I do believe is that when this is over, together we will stand in the Golden Hall and watch Eomer-King preside over the wedding of Eowyn and Faramir."

"That will be a very fine day, my Lady. May I suggest we waste no more time in bringing it into being."

"Indeed." Lothiriel applied her heels to the side of her mount. "We ride north!"

-----------------------

Eomer awoke to pain. A groan escaped him as he drew his unbroken arm under his body and pushed himself from the bone-numbing cold of the floor. Slowly he dragged himself to the rear of the cave and propped himself against the wall, wrapping his arm around the bruised muscles of his torso. With his other hand he tested the ache in the side of his face. His lip was split again, dried blood had crusted in his beard while he was unconscious. Fortunately, though, he hadn't been hit hard enough to break bone. Both his nose and cheek seemed intact, the latter bruised but not swollen.

He curled in on himself, the memory of an earlier beating drifting through his mind like a dark echo. On that occasion, men had taken their fists to him on Grima's instructions. It had been a physical reinforcement of the message that he was no longer welcome in Rohan. The irony of this second beating having been, no doubt, ordered by Grima's half-sister was not lost on him. However, what concerned him more was that there seemed to be no sense to what had just happened. Unless it was simply to make him fear the sound of human footsteps approaching his cell. Or to drive home the knowledge that his life now lay in the hands of a woman who clearly hated him and wished him nothing but harm.

That thought chilled him more than the cold, and the overwhelming sense of powerlessness weighed heavily on him once again. No. He would not despair. That was what she wanted. There was still hope. Erika had promised to return, and he believed her to be a woman of her word. And if she could just reach Edoras and speak with Eowyn... He was sure that no matter how wild the story might seem, Eowyn would not rest until she had put it to the test. She would send men to look for him, and Erika would lead them here. That was his hope. The one thing that still gave him the strength to believe he would not die here. The one thing that made the long hours bearable.

He'd tried to keep track of the days, but it was difficult. The faint light from the cave mouth was his only guide to the passing of day and night, and he could not tell how long he'd been unconscious. It had been light when his attackers arrived, and light when he regained consciousness. But had a night passed between? Similarly when he slept. The icy cold of the rock against his skin and the constant gnawing hunger of his belly meant he drifted in and out of sleep at odd times, but when he woke with frozen limbs and cramped muscles he could never be sure how long he'd slumbered. Sometimes he felt he'd been here forever, sometimes he convinced himself that it was but a brief couple of days.

Footsteps.

Despite himself he tensed, the memory of the beating already having its effect on his nerves. With grim determination he forced himself to appear relaxed and at ease. It might be impossible to banish fear completely, but he would not allow it to show on his face or in the manner of his bearing. He would not give Galwyn the satisfaction of knowing her treatment of him was having any effect.

"I came as soon as I could."

His visitor was hidden behind a lantern, but he recognised Erika's voice immediately.

Relieved, he scrambled to his feet and hurried to the bars of the cell. A glance towards the cave entrance told him it was had grown dark outside. "I would not have you travel by night. There are dangers enough..."

"Do not have concern for me, my lord king. The sun will not be long in its bed. Indeed, by the time you have drawn a map, it will be risen. I would make the most of the day by setting off early."

Her words surprised, driving home the fact that he was disconnected from the passing of time. She lifted the lantern higher and then drew in a shocked breath at the sight of his face. "You have been beaten."

He pursed his lips as frustration at his circumstances threatened to spill over. She did not deserve to be harshly told that he was well aware of that fact. That he did indeed find it difficult not to dwell upon it. "You have parchment and ink?" he asked instead.

"Please, let me..." She reached towards him, her gaze still intent on his new injury.

"Do not have concern for me," he snapped, turning her words back on her. "It is nothing more than a bruise. Save your energy for the journey to Edoras."

For a moment, he thought she would argue with me, but then she inclined her head in submission.

"As you wish." Her tone told her she was obeying the king, but she was less than impressed with the man. He swore silently to himself, and wished he could explain his worries to her. But that would take time and Galwyn could arrive at any moment. Or his abusers might return. He would not wish for Erika to suffer at their hands.

"I do not mean to be rude," he said, as she set the lantern down on the floor, and then pulled a roll of parchment, a quill and a bottle of ink from her bag. "It is simply that time is precious." He took the writing tools and squatted down on his side of the bars, making best use of the light that spilled from the lantern. "I'm not exactly sure where in the cave hills I'm being held, but you should be able to orientate yourself easily enough from the sun. You need to head south." For the next few moments he scratched out a rough map that would lead her across the plains, through the wood and then to Edoras itself. "Is that clear?"

She looked uncertain. "I have never ventured further than the surrounding villages, sire, but you make the way sound simple enough." She rolled the parchment up and put everything back in her bag. Taking up the lantern she once again scanned his face, her expression concerned. "I will travel as fast as I can."

"May the gods speed your journey and keep you safe," he replied. "Now go. Quickly."

He sank back in his now familiar spot at the rear of the cave. The sun had indeed risen in the short time Erika had been with him. He began to calculate how long he might remain a prisoner. It was easily a day's walk across the plain to the woods. Perhaps another day to pass through it, given that she would be unfamiliar with travelling through a thick press of trees and undergrowth. And then two to Edoras. Assuming she was able to speak immediately with Eowyn, he could perhaps hope that riders would be sent out the same day that she arrived. Which would mean rescue might be with him on the sixth day if they rode hard and found him without delay. Six days. It would no doubt seem like a lifetime, especially if Galwyn kept him on the meagre rations of stale bread and water. But he would survive it, and he would be rescued. He closed his eyes and slowly drifted off into the first peaceful sleep since his capture.

-------------

Riding north had not proven as simple as Lothiriel had imagined. Elfhelm had insisted that they swing round in a wide arc to avoid the routine patrols that still watched over Edoras and its surrounding villages. As a result by nightfall they were actually directly due west of Edoras, and had made no forward progress towards the wood.

"A whole day wasted," she chafed as she woke the next morning, stiff from sleeping on the ground and sore from long hours in the saddle.

"We cannot know what influence Ceorl already wields," Elfhelm replied. "It will aid Eomer naught if we fall into the hands of men who answer to that blackheart rather than to the king."

"Do you really believe allegiances would be traded so quickly?"

Elfhelm adjusted the girth on his mount before replying. "Eomer is believed dead. Who knows what lies Ceorl might already be spreading about our departure from Edoras. We can but hope that he believes us to be travelling innocently to Gondor, but if I were in his shoes, I would have men loyal to me watching the roads north."

"So much intrigue," Lothiriel murmured.

"Aye, my lady. I have lived through more than my share of that. Dark days when evil seemed to prevail, and all that was good and true was being driven from our lands."

Lothiriel swung up onto the saddle of her horse, and waited as Elfhelm did likewise with his own mount. "You speak of the time Eomer was banished, do you not?"

Elfhelm urged his horse forward, his face like granite. "Aye."

It was clear he did not wish to speak of it, and so she changed tact as she drew alongside him. "What is he like, Elfhelm? Are the stories that are told of him true?"

His expression softened and he shot her an amused look. "Is he really a hero worthy of great songs and the admiration of a princess? Is that what you're asking, my lady?"

Heat rushed into her cheeks. "I was merely curious to know more of the man that we are risking our lives to rescue."

"Then it is only fair that I reply honestly."

He paused and Lothiriel found herself suddenly fearful of his reply. This was, after all, the man who perhaps knew the King of Rohan better than any other – who would have seen him at his worse and, unlike Eowyn, did not have a sibling affection to blind him to faults.

Elfhelm cleared his throat. "He is indeed a hero, my lady. None save perhaps King Elessar can rival him for valour on the battlefield."

"And what about off the battlefield?"

"He is a fine man – fair, loyal, honourable."

"He must have some faults," Lothiriel protested.

"Aye."

"And?" She didn't know why she was asking, but it suddenly seemed important to know what Eomer was really like. Faramir's description had intrigued her, but she knew that her cousin had deliberately painted a favourable impression in an attempt to play cupid. So in love with Eowyn was he, that all things Rohirric had a magical quality in his sight, and he could think of nothing finer than for her to share in his joy by match-making her with Rohan's most eligible bachelor.

"He has a frightful temper when roused," Elfhelm admitted. "Although he does his best to keep it in check. And..."

"And what?"

"No, I cannot say. To admit such a thing brings shame to all of Rohan."

Lothiriel twisted round in her saddle to look at him. "That is most unfair. To hint at something and then refuse to speak." She hesitated and then thought better of pressing the matter. "No, I will not ask you to say more if it will sully the good reputation of Rohan, and of her king."

Elfhelm smiled. "Well, perhaps if you were to swear not to repeat what I say. After all, you are risking your life for him. It is as well that you know what kind of man he is."

"I swear," Lothiriel said quickly, her curiosity getting the better of her, even though she was not at all sure she now wanted to hear what it was that Elfhelm knew.

"Very well." Elfhelm glanced around as though they might be overhead even though they were many leagues from the nearest village. He nudged his horse closer and leaned towards her, his voice a low, conspiratorial whisper. "The king cannot hold his drink. I've known him to pass out after just ten tankards of ale."

"Ten tankards?" Lothiriel spluttered. "Such an amount of ale would knock out a horse never mind a man. That is your shameful secret about the king?"

Elfhelm's looked indignant. "Aye, my lady. Even that elf – Legolas – can best our king in a drinking game. It is indeed a most shameful state of affairs. I have your word now, that you will not speak of this? I would not have spoken except that, as you say, you have a right to know of the man you have chosen to aid – his strengths and – " He shuddered slightly. "His weaknesses."

Lothiriel gave a peal of laughter. "Yes, Lord Elfhelm. You do indeed have my word. Rohan's shameful secret will not be pressed from my lips, even under the most dire of circumstances."

Nodding his approval, Elfhelm spurred his horse into a trot. "Now, let us make haste. It is still a full day's ride before we even reach the woods, and with every passing minute the trail grows colder."

-------------------

Cold. Wet. Shocked.

Eomer jerked awake with a curse. Gasping for breath, he discovered he was soaked to the skin, and that Galwyn was standing on the other side of the bars, an empty bucket in her hand.

"Greetings, Eomer, once proud king of the Mark." She set the bucket down and sniffed the air. "That's better. The smell of unwashed male was beginning to be quite overpowering."

His teeth chattering violently he wrapped his arms around his chest, and declined to reply to her insults. Personal hygiene was hardly high on his agenda given she gave him barely enough water to quench his thirst each day.

"This silence of yours is irritating," she said. "I would have thought you would welcome conversation after hours of solitude."

"I would much prefer solitude to your company, and silence is a more welcome companion than your venomous words." He climbed to his feet and began to pace in the hope of bringing some semblance of warmth back to his body.

She picked up the skein of rope that lay on the table, and beckoned him towards the bars. "And do you prefer hunger to a full belly? Thirst instead of refreshment?"

Anger boiled in his veins. He knew what she was doing. Drenching him with ice cold water was just one of her petty ways to grind him down and make his life miserable. This game of humiliation was another - a blatant attempt to steal all hope from him and break his will. Well, it would not work. He would not let her defeat him this way. Nor would he let her goad him into refusing what little sustenance she offered him. Sooner or later, he would need his strength to escape this place. Lifting his chin defiantly he followed the now familiar ritual of allowing her to bind his hands on the other side of the bars. Once he was secure, she reached through and gripped his face, lifting her lantern high so she might see the bruises on his cheek more clearly.

"Leave me be," he hissed, jerking his head away from her intrusive fingers.

"Do you not wish to know why such punishment was inflicted?"

He glared at her. What new game was this that she would play? What answer did she look for?

"Your uncertainty betrays you, Son of Eomund." She unlocked the cell and retrieved the empty water jug. "You long for answers, do you not?"

He looked away. Angry that he did not know how to respond.

She replaced the bucket in his cell with the empty one, and set a fresh jug of water inside the door. "Would you like to know how your sister fares?"

"If you touch so much as a hair of her head..." he began before he could stop himself.

Galwyn laughed. "The protectiveness of an older brother. How touching. And does she feel the same way about you?" She smiled coldly when he did not reply. "Would she, for example, give up the man she loves and wed another to save your life?"

A fresh piece of the puzzle dropped into place. And with it came another knot of frustration. "You are holding me hostage to control my sister?"

"At last you arrive at the obvious." The cell door locked with a dull metallic clang.

"But she believes me dead. You told me so yourself."

"I told you she would see that the body your men carried back to Edoras was given a royal burial." Galwyn gave a mock sigh as she began to untie Eomer's hands. "She sees to a great deal that is not her choice, much as her uncle did before her." She stepped back quickly as the rope came free from his wrists. "Ironic is it not that the power behind the throne is once more a descendent of Galmod?"

His mind was spinning. If Eowyn knew he lived then surely she would find a way to send help. But hard on the heels of that hope came a second, unwelcome thought - he had sent Erika to Edoras for nothing, had asked her to risk her life to deliver news to the one person who was already aware of it and who was perhaps now least able to help. He should have told her to seek out Elfhelm or one of the other Marshalls. He cursed silently, then suddenly realised Galwyn was waiting for a response. It would not do to let her know what he was thinking. Quickly, he pushed all thoughts of Erika from his mind. There was nothing he could do to help her now other than pray to the gods for her safety.

He made himself sound confident. "You are a fool if you think such a plan will work. Eowyn knows I would gladly die for her and for Rohan. She will not stand by and let your son seize power through her."

"That is no doubt what she will tell herself. That soon she will act, sacrificing the brother she loves in order to save her country. But first she will trust to hope - believing that some way to rescue you will reveal itself. And so she will hesitate."

"No," Eomer said vehemently.

"Yes," Galwyn corrected. "She will hesitate and Ceorl will grow stronger, entangling her day by day until finally she cannot move against him."

"No," Eomer said again. "She will not allow that to happen. You are sorely mistaken if you think she will allow her feelings for me to trap her so."

"You are the one who is mistaken. For it is one thing to decide to sacrifice someone you love, but it is another matter entirely to watch them die a slow, painful death. To hear them screaming in agony hour after hour when you know that it is within your power to stop their pain."

Eomer snorted in derision. "What would you do? Drag me to Edoras and torture me in the Golden Hall itself?"

Galwyn smiled cruelly. "There is no need for that. Have you not heard of Flames of Farsight? Your sister has. Indeed, she was most - impressed - with a recent demonstration of their clarity of vision."

He stared at her in horror and an icy coldness that had nothing to do with the damp of his hair and clothes stole his breath away. Erika had told him Galwyn dabbled in the dark arts, but he had not thought it important. Now, though, he suddenly recognised the real purpose, the truly evil intent behind the senseless beating he'd suffered. Eowyn had seen it. Had no doubt been forced to watch. The cold in his belly was suddenly replaced with fury. He threw himself at the bars, reaching through them in the vain attempt to catch hold of Galwyn. If he could but grab a handful of her cloak, he would drag her close and choke the life from her.

She was too quick for him, though. Stepping back, she laughed at him from a safe distance.

"You can't keep me prisoner for ever," he said, his knuckles white as he gripped the bars. "And when I do get out of here..."

"You'll what?" she sneered. "Look at you. Bruised, bloodied and shivering like a newly whelped pup. Do you seriously think I'm afraid of what you might do to me?" She thrust her hand into her pocket and drew out a small leaf-wrapped package.

Despite himself, Eomer's gaze locked on it. Food. Damn her. She was skilled in twisting the knife into his every weakness. He watched as she unwrapped the leaves, revealing a portion of succulent chicken and a chunk of bread so fresh he could smell its yeasty fragrance.

"Would you like this?" she asked, holding it out to him.

He wanted to scream his defiance. Wanted to tell her he would rather starve than be dependent on her malicious pretence at charity. But he knew he could not afford such a rash act. He had to survive. If rescue came, he had to be ready, had to be strong enough to walk - perhaps even to run. His teeth gritted so hard his jaw ached, he curtly nodded his head.

"Such ill-manners," she said, locking his gaze with her pale, blue eyes. "Ask nicely."

Silence hung between them for a long, painful moment as he wrestled with his need for sustenance and his knowledge that this game could quickly spiral beyond his control. If he gave in to this today, what would she demand of him tomorrow? Would he end up like a lapdog begging for scraps?

"Very well," she said. She turned to go.

"Please." It was just a word, but it felt as though she was ripping his soul from him.

"Please what?" she asked, her face already triumphant.

"Please, may I have the food."

With a victorious smile, she threw it at his feet, then turned and left.

He sank to the ground, and told himself his limbs were trembling because he was cold, wet and hungry. It was difficult to deny the hollow ache in his chest, though. And as he picked the chicken from the ground and chewed the first mouthful, he realised it tasted of nothing but defeat.


	9. A walk in the woods

_A/N: Thank you once again for the reviews. A few quick replies._

_A.E. Hall – thanks for catching the typos. Edmund is my son's best friend, not Eomer's father as you noted ;-)_

_Eokat: I wondered where you'd gone. Sorry you had problems reviewing chapter 7. Glad you're still enjoying the story._

_Athelas63: 'Fraid you're going to have to fret over Eomer a bit longer. Hang on in there._

_Lady scribe: I love reading your guesses at what's coming next. Of course, I can't tell you whether you're right or not, but keep reading._

_Haldir's Heart and Soul: I'm sure Eomer agrees that someone should definitely slap Galwyn. No doubt he would be the first to volunteer._

_Everyone else: Many, many thanks for your enthusiastic reviews. Buckle up and sit back for the next chapter._

**Chapter 9 – A walk in the woods**

"What do you mean, she's gone?" Galwyn threw a handful of herbs into the stew she was making, then turned slowly to face Selred. It pleased her that he flinched at her annoyance. He was a strong man, and he liked the fact that his muscles earned him respect. It was a trait she had quickly turned to her advantage, drawing him into her sphere of influence through flattery and then ensnaring him with promises of rich rewards. It hadn't taken long to convince him he deserved much more than a life toiling the soil nor to blind him to the fact that, under her guidance, people now feared him rather than respected him. He believed her when she told him he was special. Believed her when she said he deserved to have whatever his heart desired. Believed her when she said she wanted only what was good for him even though it was obvious to anyone else that she was using him.

Uneasy beneath her gaze, Selred shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "I overheard the mother of that sick brat asking where she was. It seems no one has seen her since late last night."

"She could be simply seeking new herbs."

"Or she could be seeking to bring aid to the king."

Galwyn glared at him. "Do not speak out loud of that which does no longer exists in the minds of men."

"Sorry." Selred ducked his head.

Galwyn turned back to the pot over the fire and stirred the thick, dark stew thoughtfully. "You have men watching the road?"

"She has not passed them."

"And the neighbouring villages?"

"I would know if she had journeyed thus."

"It would seem, then, that our young healer is being most foolish." She lifted the stew pot from the fire and set it to one side of the hearth. The news was not entirely surprising. Erika was young, and no doubt felt a sympathy for the handsome prisoner despite being warned that his heart was as evil as his face was fair. However, such a turn of events was more troublesome than disaster. In fact, it was almost amusing. She glanced back at Selred. "Shall we find out?"

His eyes glittered with anticipation, and Galwyn smiled. The dark arts entranced him, offering him that which his muscles alone could not achieve – real power that would not wane with the passing years. Such a gift was not to be his though. She would share much with him as long as he served her, but not this. For she knew that if ever he learnt to call upon it himself, he would no longer need her to fulfil his desires, whereas she would always need his physical strength to achieve that which magic could not.

She beckoned him closer and then turned back to the fire. Thrusting her hand into her pocket, her fingers brushed against the cool metal of the key to the cell, and she felt the familiar rush of satisfaction at the thought of the man she had imprisoned in the dark depths of the earth. Soon he would pay the full price for the insults he had heaped upon her half-brother. It had been Eomer who first referred to him as Wormtongue, a name that had clung like a leach until few remembered that he was actually Grima, Son of Galmod. Well, soon it would be worms that feasted on the body of Eomer, Son of Eomund and few would remember or care that Rohan briefly had a king between the reigns of Theoden and Ceorl the Restorer.

Deeper in her pocket was a pouch, which she now drew out. Loosening the cord at its neck, she took a pinch of powder from it, and then began to recite the words that would combine the dust and flame into a potent spell. Beside her, Selred tensed as he strained to make sense of the strange tongue that she spoke. She had no fear of him doing so. It had taken Grima many patient weeks to teach her what little she knew of the dark arts. Selred would not learn it through mere observation.

She was nearly ready now. Picking up the metal poker, she stirred the flames until they leapt high, then she blew the dust into them. Instantly the flames turned green. Suddenly she felt she was flying – higher and higher above the village like an eagle. She turned to the north, then to the south, reaching out with her senses. Ahead of her lay the road to the villages. She turned west and saw the mountains. She turned east and let herself fly towards the caves. Into the darkness she plunged. He was still there – and in this ethereal form she could sense his fatigue, his hunger, the dark despair that clung to his skin like a fungus. She resisted the urge to laugh. He was not her prey – not today. She rose higher again, out of the darkness, back into the light, higher and higher above the caves and the craggy cliffs.

"There!"

A small figure on a narrow path that led across the grasslands.

The flames suddenly flickered, then died. Galwyn staggered backwards, exhausted by the effort. Using the flames for a searching was always draining. She reached out, found the edge of table beneath her hand. Selred's arm was suddenly around her waist, supporting her, and then helping her to sit.

"Stew," she said weakly. "And ale."

He obeyed instantly, ladling the rich, fragrant food into a bowl, passing her a spoon, and drawing a tankard of frothy, dark ale from a barrel in the corner. For a few moments she did not speak, instead concentrating on shovelling meat into her mouth, restoring the energy that had drained from her. When finally the bowl and tankard were both empty, she looked up.

"She walks towards the woods."

Selred nodded. "And from there to Edoras?"

"She will not reach Edoras," Galwyn said. "You will find her. And you will kill her. Now go. I must rest."

---------------------------

Over recent weeks there had been many riders carrying messages between Rohan and Gondor. Aragorn was sure, however, that none had entered his presence with such obvious reluctance as the young man who now kneeled before him. He glanced at Arwen, who was sitting beside him, and saw from the concern on her face that she too sensed the rider did not bear glad tidings.

"What news from the Riddermark?" he asked, as soon as the rider had made his formal greeting. To his surprise the rider did not reply, but instead drew a parchment from inside his tunic.

"I was bid to give you this," the rider said, bowing his head.

Aragorn stared at the written missive for a long moment. Eomer was not one for wasting time with pen and ink. For him to do so, meant the message was one that required precision of words, and that did not bode well. The relationship between Gondor and Rohan was based on mutual respect and honesty; it did not require careful diplomacy and guarded sentiments. Slowly he got to his feet and took the parchment from the rider.

He turned his back as he unrolled it, intending to retake his seat. However, as his eyes took in the neatly scribed words he froze.

"Aragorn?" Arwen spoke his name in a concerned tone. "What is it?"

He could not bring himself to believe what he had read. No. This could not be. Slowly he scanned the parchment again, his gaze lingering on the signature. Eowyn, Queen of Rohan.

Arwen was on her feet now. She touched his arm, stirring him from the nightmare into which he had just fallen. Her grey-blue eyes searched his face. "What ill news does the letter bear?"

"Eomer." The name came out as a whisper. He swallowed, forced his voice to obey him. "Eomer is dead."

Shock stole the colour from Arwen's cheeks. "No, that cannot be."

He held the parchment out to her. "Read for yourself. I cannot bring myself to speak the words." His legs seemed as though they were made of lead as he turned to the rider. Now he understood that the rider's reluctance to enter his presence was caused by sorrow. He could see it clearly – a dark shadow in the man's eyes and a tension in his shoulders that said he longed to be alone to mourn his king. He glanced once more at the parchment Arwen now held. As King of Gondor he was required to send a response. As Eomer's friend, though... He swallowed hard. Dead? How could he be dead? After all they had been through together, fighting forces that outnumbered them by thousands, standing up against Sauron - how could Eomer have lost his life in such a trivial way?

He sucked in a deep breath, filling his lungs to capacity so there was no room in his chest for the burning ache of grief. "Rider of Rohan," he said. "We will set out for Edoras tomorrow, there to pay our respects at the funeral of Eomer-King. I bid you leave as soon as you can. Ride ahead of us and tell your new queen when to look for us." He gestured to one of his stewards. "Show this man to the kitchen. See that he is fed and provide him with provisions for his return journey." As the two men bowed and then hurried away, Aragorn glanced round at the shocked faces of his advisers and other court personnel. There was still a lot of business to be attended to, but he had no stomach for it. "This audience is over," he said curtly.

"Your majesty..." An elderly man stepped forward. "There are many pressing needs that require your attention. And while this news from Rohan is indeed tragic..."

Aragorn glared at him. "Our pressing needs can wait. Today, and for the next seven days as our tradition demands, we will mourn the passing of a great warrior, one to whom many of us owe our lives." He turned away and added softly. "A great warrior and a true friend."

-----------------

When Erika awoke she was dismayed to find that the sun was already risen and halfway to its zenith. She scrambled to her feet, wincing as her limbs complained at the exercise of the previous day and the night spent sleeping on the ground. Eomer had been right. It had taken her a full day to reach the woods. In fact it had grown dark before she set foot amongst the trees. Exhausted she had made a bed in a hollow at the base of the nearest large tree, but it had not been her intention to sleep past dawn. She cursed herself. The King was relying on her, and here she was, wasting precious hours of daylight in sleep.

Brushing herself down, she pulled a small piece of dried meat from her bag for breakfast. She would eat as she walked, hopefully that would distract her enough to not think about the oppressive nature of the trees or of Eomer's warning that it would not be so easy to find her way by the sun beneath the canopy of leaves. Forward. She had to go forward. But it was difficult to step away from the open plains and into the shadows. All her life she had lived beneath an open sky, and though Eomer had said her there was nothing to fear in the wood, her heart was already pounding at the prospect of walking into its depths.

For the king, she told herself sternly.

The air smelt very different between the trees. Earthy. Damp. Pungent. The ground was different beneath her feet too. The deep carpet of decaying leaves was soft and spongy. Despite her unease, she soon found herself caught up by the many unusual species of plants that were growing around her. On one tree a vast mushroom-like plant stretched out from a branch above her head. Elsewhere were patches of velvet-leafed ferns and small, feather-like plants with tiny blue flowers. The healer in her could not help but wonder if this new vegetation held medicinal properties that she did not know of. She promised herself, on her return, she would gather specimens and then seek out someone who knew the secrets of the woodland. Someone, perhaps, who would be willing to trade their knowledge for some of her hill-loving herbs.

To her surprise she glanced up and discovered the sun was now directly overhead. Midday. Having eaten a late breakfast, she pressed on. She was attuned to wood now - the soft singing of bird song and the gentle sibilance of the leaves almost relaxing. Suddenly, though, the sharp crack of breaking wood sounded up ahead. She froze, peering through the trees fearfully in case it was a wild boar. Eomer had told her it was extremely unlikely she would come across such an animal, and that even if she did, it would not harm her. They are only dangerous when wounded and cornered, he had said. Much as she trusted him to speak the truth, she had no desire to put his words to the test.

A second noise reached her now. The deep, huffing sound of an animal exhaling - a large animal. Slowly Erika stepped backwards. She would find an alternative route. It would not matter for there was no right path through the wood, just a myriad of alternative choices that wove through the trees. She took another step back, and heard the creature ahead of her moving away and to her right. Fine. She would go left. Taking care to tread lightly, she moved between the trees, listening intently for the animal. She froze again. It was no longer to her right. Instead, it seemed as though it was following her, circling round and behind and...

She spun round and let out a gasp of shock. Selred was looking down at her from the back of a horse.

"Well, well, look who I've found wandering the woods alone," he said, sliding from the saddle.

For a moment she couldn't think, but then she found her voice. "I am searching for new medicines. What brings you so far from the village?"

He smiled coldly. "Medicines, hey? I am searching for far more interesting prey." He suddenly darted forward and grabbed her wrist. "I'm searching for a young woman who has chosen to meddle in things that are no concern of hers."

"Let me go," she said, desperately trying to break free of his hold.

"Feisty little thing, aren't you?" Selred said. His eyes raked her from head to toe. "Pretty too." He pulled her close, tangling the fingers of his other hand in her hair and yanking her head back so she had to look up at him. "Here's the deal. You give me what I want willingly, and I'll kill you quickly. Fight me and I'll take what I want anyway and make you beg me to end your pitiful life."

Terror and fury battled for supremacy. Then came the cold realisation that she was going to die no matter what she did. Summoning up all her courage, she spat in his face. "You're nothing but a bully who can't get a woman any other way."

His fingers untangled from her hair, and she saw him draw back his arm. There was nothing she could do to avoid the slap though. The ferocity of it knocked her to the ground and drove the breath from her lungs. Stunned she lay on her back and stared up at him. The hiss of metal sliding against leather cut through the air as he drew his sword from its sheath, and then he was towering over her, one foot planted either side of her hips and his face twisted into an ugly grimace of lust and cruelty.

"Bad choice," he said.

---------------

As much as he hated to admit it, Eomer's first thought on seeing Galwyn again was one of relief. A whole day had passed without a visit, which at first he'd considered to be a good thing. But as the hours dragged by and his water jug remained empty, he had realised that there could be far worse things than barbed words. Hunger he could cope with. There seemed to be a point at which his belly simply gave up complaining about its need for food. Thirst, though, that was proving to be an all-together more unpleasant experience. Not only did his mouth feel like the bottom of Firefoot's oat bag, he felt dizzy when he stood, and a dull headache nagged persistently behind his eyes. And then there were the muscle cramps that tore into his limbs like wild animals gnawing on his bones. That had taken him by surprise. He was sure a few hours without water wasn't supposed to cause such a reaction. Perhaps Galwyn had left him longer than he'd imagined. It was so hard to tell.

Anyway, she was here now, and all he could think of was the prospect of cool, sweet water in his mouth. He didn't even bother putting on a show of token resistance as she picked up the rope. There seemed little point in dragging out the familiar routine and denying himself what he needed. To his surprise, though, the moment he was secured, she reached through the bars, pressing the palm of one hand against his forehead as though checking for fever. He jerked away from her touch.

"Do not pretend to be concerned for my well being," he snarled.

Without so much as a single insult by way of response, she went about her tasks, and he could not help but look longingly at the full water jug that was now set inside his cell. It was odd, though, that she was so quiet, and now, as he paid more attention he noted a weariness about her that he had not seen before. Hope stirred within him. Perhaps her plans were not going as expected. He was sure that Eowyn would prove a more difficult opponent that either Galwyn or Ceorl would have anticipated. Alert for an advantage now, he watched closely as she locked the cell and moved slowly back towards him. Yes, she was definitely looking tired. There were dark shadows beneath her eyes and her pale skin looked grey, even in the yellow light of the lantern.

This could be his chance.

He summoned up his scant reserve of energy as she fumbled with the knots of the rope that bound his hands together. Then, as the strands finally came loose, he struck, pushing himself right up against the bars and grabbing at her robe. His fingers curled around a wad of rough woollen cloth at her neck and he jerked his arm back, pulling her against the bars. She let out a startled yelp, but before she could find her balance, he let go of her robe and grabbed her throat. Fear flickered in her eyes, but then, almost immediately her expression changed to one of cruel triumph. Eomer sucked in a breath as he felt the sharp prick of a knife blade against his ribs.

"Release me or I'll gut you where you stand," she hissed, barely able to force the words past his grip.

For one crazy moment he considered the odds. Could he choke her before she inflicted a fatal injury? The knife blade pressed harder against his ribs. He risked glancing down, saw the length of the blade, and knew instantly that with a single thrust it could penetrate between his bones and then up into his heart. With a curse, he shoved her backwards, stepping out of her reach and safely away from the blade as he did so. Stupid. He'd been really stupid not to remember she carried a knife.

Galwyn stumbled against the table, grabbing at it for support, her free hand going to her throat as she gasped for breath. Eomer moved to the back of the cell, and pulled up his shirt to see what damage she'd inflicted. To his relief he found the blade had barely broken his skin. The injury to his pride was an entirely different matter, though.

"So you are dangerous still," Galwyn said, her voice hoarse. She coughed harshly. "Thank you for the reminder. I will not make the same mistake again."

He turned to face her, frustration making him cruel. 'Would that I had crushed your windpipe."

She straightened up and smoothed her dishevelled robes. The knife disappeared into the folds of material. Her expression turned calculating. "She's dead you know."

"What?" His thoughts immediately turned to Eowyn, and for a moment he thought he might fall as a sick dizziness washed over him.

"Did you think I wouldn't be able to track her?" She rubbed at her throat. "Cost me dear it did, for the Flames of Farsight are not easily turned to searching, but I found her."

Erika! She was talking about Erika. He staggered backwards and was grateful for the cold rock behind his back, the solidity of it keeping him upright. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said, forcing the lie past the ache of despair that threatened to overwhelm him.

"I think you do," Galwyn countered. "I think you sent her to Edoras, which means that her blood is on yours hands."

"No." The word tore from him in an anguished whisper - a denial not of his guilt, but of Erika's death.

"Selred went after her," Galwyn continued maliciously. "He's a truly evil man. Even I fear to think of the things he might do to a pretty young woman before killing her."

"No. No." Eomer slid down the rock wall, not caring that the rough surface scraped at the tender skin on his back. He wrapped his arms around his knees and buried his face in his hands, no longer concerned that Galwyn could see his distress. She was right. He was responsible. He'd sent Erika to her death - and worse.

Galwyn laughed softly. "And so the stallion is finally broken."

Eomer didn't look up. He heard the sound of stale bread hitting the floor of his cell - not one helping, but two. He didn't care about the double rations. Did not even stop to question the reason for it. Soft footsteps told him Galwyn was leaving. All he could think about was the fact that an innocent young woman had been raped and killed because of his desire to live and be free. What right had he to life at the expense of another?

Exhausted, mentally and physically, he wept.


	10. A glimmer of hope

_A/N: Many, many thanks for all the encouraging reviews. My apologies for the shortness of this chapter and for not replying to individuals. I'm about to go on vacation (and should actually be packing) but did not want to leave without doing an update as it'll be a couple of weeks until the next one. Hope you enjoy this chapter. Until September - adieu._

**Chapter 10 - A glimmer of hope**

Elfhelm was impressed. Although he was not sure why he was so surprised to be so. After all, Eowyn was royalty and she perfectly capable of not just riding all day, but of going into battle and taking on the Witch King himself. Despite her example, he had not expected much of the Princess of Dol Amroth. She had struck him as altogether more feminine - perhaps because of the silk dresses she wore, or perhaps simply because of her manner. However, he had quickly discovered that first impressions could be misleading. They had made excellent speed the previous day, thanks in no small measure to the fact that the princess had been quite at ease with the long hours in the saddle. Indeed, at the end of the day, she moved far more lithely than he - something that had pricked at his Rohirric pride and made him feel as old as the plains across which they travelled. Apparently being the only sister of three brothers had not turned her into a soft, pampered young lady, but had instead made her something of a tomboy. Looks, he realised, could be extremely deceiving.

He hadn't been quite so impressed by the fact she had roused him from his sleep before the first rays of the sun had lit up the sky. She had apologised for the early start, explaining that she found it impossible to sleep on the hard ground. However, he could not find fault with her argument that her inability to sleep was fortuitous because it meant they could hasten on with their journey and therefore bring about Eomer's rescue all the sooner.

As a result they had managed to travel deep into the wood by the time the sun had reached its zenith. Perhaps another hour and they could expect the trees to begin to thin. By dusk they should have travelled far enough to get their first glimpse of the craggy hills within which they hoped to find the king.

Elfhelm's gaze drifted over to the princess once again. Her determination to rescue a man she had never met still struck him as strange. Was it possible that her interest in the king was not entirely selfless? He had heard rumours that her father was eager to see her wed. In Rohan it was not unusual for a woman to delay marrying until she had seen two dozen summers or more, but he was aware that in Gondor the tradition was to be at least betrothed before leaving one's teens. Lothiriel was young, but she had seen more than twenty summers for sure. A great many women had set their sights on Eomer when he was Third Marshall of the Mark, even more did so now he wore a crown. Why shouldn't the princess be amongst them?

He smiled at the thought of his friend wed to this young woman. Although Eomer had seven summers on her, it might perhaps be a good match. She could ride as well and as hard as any Rohirric woman he knew, and she had proven that she was not afraid to speak her mind. What was more she had not flinched at coming to Eowyn's aid and risking her life on this venture. Rohan could do far worse than have Lothiriel of Dol Amroth as its queen. As for Eomer the man - his smile widened - Eomer definitely needed a woman who would not flinch at the task of helping a hot-blooded impetuous warrior master the cool, cautious skills of a statesman. Somehow he suspected Lothiriel would welcome that challenge.

Not that she was perfect, of course. He had offered her a bow to help him hunt rabbit for their evening meal at the end of the previous day. In response, she had shaken her head sadly. "I fear my eyesight is not sharp enough to aid you in catching such small quarry," she'd said. "Let me aim at a Mumakhil or even perhaps a deer and I stand a good chance of hitting it, but a rabbit? That would be nothing but a brown blur to me unless it had the good manners to sit but a few arrow lengths away." And then there was the slight matter of her not knowing how to prepare a pair of rabbits that were still in their coats, although to be fair she had been willing enough to learn.

"Elfhelm?" Lothiriel's voice cut across his musing. "It is past midday. Shall we let the horses rest? I have to confess to being in need of respite too."

He nodded his agreement guessing that this was a polite way of informing him that she needed to empty her bladder. His own body had been making him aware of such a need too. Once they'd dismounted he watched over the horses while Lothiriel vanished into the trees to answer the call of nature. On her return, he did likewise. He was on his way back when a scream cut through the woods. His sword was in his hand in an instant. Crashing through the trees he rushed back to princess - and was astounded to see her standing alone and unthreatened by the horses.

"It wasn't me," she called, turning back to her horse and pulling her knife from its resting place under a saddlebag. "It came from over there." She gestured to the north.

"Stay here!" he said, setting off at a run. A second scream reached his ears, chilling his blood. He adjusted his direction, jumping over a fallen tree with scant concern for the branches that caught at his clothes. Seconds later he found the source of the noise. It took him the briefest of moments to realise what was going on. A young woman was sprawled on her ground, her face bloodied and the front of her tunic ripped open from neck to navel. Kneeling over her was an ugly brute of a man with red hair.

Elfhelm felt his blood boil at the sight. "Take your filthy hands off her, scum," he snarled, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the hilt of his sword.

The man swung round, and his face twisted into a sick contorted smile. He raised his own weapon in a casual guard. "Lower your weapon, stranger. I have no quarrel with you. If it's the girl you want, there's more than enough of her for the both of us."

The man was clearly both a bully and a coward. Elfhelm spat on the ground to show his disgust. "What I want is to teach you how to treat a woman with respect." He moved closer.

Realising he had no choice but to fight, the man stepped away from the girl, and began to circle Elfhelm warily. "Very well, it matters not to be whether I spill your blood before doing so with hers."

"The only blood that will be split is your own," Elfhelm threw back. With a roar he attacked. His opponent staggered back under the onslaught, barely able to raise his sword in time to parry Elfhelm's blow. Sparks flew as they fought, but it was quickly apparent that Elfhelm was the far superior swordsman. As they broke apart and Elfhelm began to circle looking for a new opening in his opponent's defence, the man suddenly gave a cry of outrage and hurled his sword spear-like at Elfhelm's chest. Elfhelm had no choice but to throw himself to the ground. He rolled twice and then hurriedly pushed himself to his feet, but it was too late. His opponent had sprinted through the trees and was already in the saddle of his waiting horse. With a howl of frustration, Elfhelm watched him ride away.

Still stunned by the ferocity of the slap, Erika shook her head in bemusement as she found herself looking up not into the face of her rugged rescuer, but into the soft, features of a beautiful young woman.

"Take it easy," the woman said, slipping off her cloak and wrapping it around Erika to cover her nakedness. "Do not worry about your clothes. I have a spare tunic in my saddlebag."

"I thought I told you to stay with the horses!" a male voice shouted.

The face floating above her turned away. "And I thought that perhaps a young woman in distress might prefer to see another of her own kind." Grey eyes focused on her again. "Are you badly hurt?"

She had believed she was going to die, but not without first suffering the worst kind of abuse. That she still lived and was untouched seemed like a miracle. "I am well," she murmured, still not quite sure that she believed herself rescued.

"There is blood on your face..."

She reached up and touched her bruised and swollen lip. "A bloodied nose and a split lip. Nothing that will not heal quickly," she said, assessing her own injuries with a cool detachment. She pulled the cloak tighter and started to sit up. Immediately she felt a strong arm around her shoulders in support. "To whom do I owe my life?"

The woman once again turned towards her companion. "That would be Lord Elfhelm."

"And you are?"

"Lothiriel."

"What is wrong with him?" Erika asked, looking over at where Elfhelm was now kneeling on the leaf-strewn ground. The warrior's face bore an odd contorted expression as he stared down at the sword he'd picked up from the ground. "Is he hurt?" she asked, suddenly anxious that he had sustained some injury in her defence.

"Elfhelm? What is it?" Lothiriel called. "What is wrong?"

Slowly he turned to face them. "It's Guthwine. It's the king's sword."

Erika stiffened at the mention of the king. She studied her rescuer afresh. His dark green robe and ornate leather armour marked him as a nobleman, but that did not necessarily mean he was to be trusted. There was something about him, though, some air, that made her think that perhaps she could. As for the woman, well, her dark hair and grey eyes were too similar in colouring to Galwyn for Erika to not harbour some reluctance in accepting her immediately as a friend. However, it was clear from her accent that she was not from Rohan, and Erika could not deny the compassion and kindness with which she had just been treated.

Suddenly Elfhelm gave a frustrated cry. Erika flinched as he pushed himself to his feet and turned towards her in order to address Lothiriel.

"That ruffian may have been our best hope of finding the king. And I let him escape!"

"Elfhelm!" Lothiriel protested.

Erika caught the gesture and warning look that Lothiriel shot at him. With a rush of surprise, she realised that the distrust travelled in two directions. Lothiriel was clearly not at all happy that her companion had mentioned the king in front of her.

"Sorry," Elfhelm muttered. "It's just that it's so..." He kicked at a dead branch, sending it flying amongst the trees. "By the gods, to be so close." He growled again.

Erika's heart was pounding as she climbed to her feet. Her mind was spinning, weighing up a dozen possibilities. She knew she had two choices. To continue her journey to Edoras in the hope of speaking to the White Lady. Or to put her trust in these two strangers. She drew in a deep breath.

"You are a friend to the king?" she asked, directing the question at Elfhelm.

Elfhelm turned sharply, his gaze boring into her. It was some moments before he replied, his tone guarded. "Long have I served those who rule in Rohan."

Erika's gaze moved to the sword that he still clutched tightly in his hands. "Indeed, there are many who gladly serve, but perhaps only a friend would know the king well enough to recognise his sword?"

He looked down at the blade, and for one brief moment, Erika saw the anguish in his face. She swallowed hard, realising that if her suspicion was wrong, her rescuer would, in the next few moments, become her murderer. But if she was right...

She took a deep breath and committed herself. "I know where the king can be found."

"You do?" It was Lothiriel who spoke. Elfhelm was staring at her open-mouthed.

Erika turned to her and nodded. "Yes. But know this too, I would rather die than lead you to him if your intent is to do him harm."

"Harm?" Elfhelm spluttered, finally finding his voice. "Listen to me, young woman, I would gladly die a thousand times over if doing so meant that the king was able to walk free of whatever foul prison he is currently housed in."

Lothiriel stepped forward and placed a restraining arm on Elfhelm's arm before addressing Erika. "Elfhelm is the Marshall of the East-Mark. You will find no man more loyal to the king in the whole of the Riddermark."

"And what of you, my lady?" Erika asked. "What reason does one not of the Mark have for seeking the king so far from Edoras and in such unusual circumstances?"

"I am Lothiriel of Dol Amroth, cousin to Faramir, promised-husband of Eowyn, the White Lady. Your king will therefore soon be kin to me through the ties of marriage, and that, together with my love for his sister, is reason enough for me to come to his aid."

A princess and a Marshall of the Mark. Under ordinary circumstances Erika would've been overwhelmed by such illustrious company. Right now, though, her only thought was that these two people might help bring about the release of the king far sooner than if she journeyed all the way to Edoras. Given Galwyn's obvious hatred of Eomer that had to be a good thing.

Relief washed over her that the burden of saving his life could now be shared with those far more capable of bringing about his release.

"I will tell you everything I know," she said.


	11. The key to freedom

_My apologies for the delay in posting. My return from holiday coincided with my husband's birthday, which swallowed up the weekend. Then last week, it was usual chaos of getting the boys back to school, plus settling back into the routine. Anyway, hopefully I shall be posting regularly again from now on._

_Warmest thanks as always to everyone who takes the time to review and encourage. It is always much appreciated._

Chapter 11 - The key to freedom

Four days had passed. How many more did she dare allow to drift by without taking action? How much deeper into the spider's lair did she dare travel? Eowyn gazed out of her chamber window towards Gondor. The messenger should have arrived by now. Soon Aragorn and many others would be journeying to Rohan for the funeral of an unknown man. Her heart twisted at the anguish she had bought upon them, particularly Aragorn, for she knew that he had formed a deep affection for her brother. As for Faramir - no, it was better not to think of Faramir and the hurt that she had deliberately inflicted in order to protect him.

If only she knew how things fared with Lothiriel and Elfhelm. Then she would know how soon she could act and how much longer she had to tolerate Ceorl. With every passing hour his influence over the Royal court increased, but she did not dare act. Not yet. Not until she was sure Eomer was safe.

A knock at the door startled her from her reverie. She knew instantly that it wasn't Ceorl. He no longer bothered to knock, instead entering her bedchamber as though he already had the rights of a husband. She shuddered at the thought of being wed to him, and thanked the gods that so far he had not tried to touch her in such a way. If not Ceorl, though, who might it be? Eagerly she turned towards the door, praying that it might be Eothain or one of the other marshals that she still trust. She was disappointed, however, to discover it was merely a servant girl – a young lass that she did not recognise.

"My lady, may I have permission to clean?" The girl did not look at her as she dropped into an awkward curtsey.

"Of course." Eowyn was shocked to see fear on the girl's face when she straightened up. "What is wrong?" she asked.

"Nothing, my lady." The girl quickly fetched a broom and other cleaning equipment from the hallway.

"You look frightened," Eowyn said, determined to have the truth.

The girl's hands were trembling as she picked up her duster. "Please, my lady, don't harm me. I wish only to clean your chamber."

"Harm you?" The idea was so ridiculous Eowyn gave a peal of laughter. "Why on earth would I do such a thing?"

The young girl flinched and ducked her head down, her shoes suddenly of utmost interest.

An unwelcome suspicion crawled along Eowyn's spin and her amusement vanished. "Speak," she commanded. "Tell me why you barely have the courage to enter my presence."

"Please, my lady." The girl began to back towards the door, but Eowyn was too quick for her. With three swift strides she placed herself between the girl and her escape. To her dismay, the girl backed away from her as though she was monster, cowering against the wall.

She made herself smile and kept her voice gentle. "Come, come. I will not harm you. You have my word." That earned her a distrustful look. She sighed. "Clearly someone has been spreading lies about me. I ask simply that you tell me what you have heard."

With obvious reluctance the serving girl spoke, her voice barely louder than a whisper. "They say you have been driven mad by the loss of your brother, my lady."

"Do they now,' Eowyn said, indignation rising in her chest. "And who are they?"

"Everyone, my lady," the girl replied.

That news shocked Eowyn. "And does everyone believe such a thing of me?" The girl stared at her shoes again, her silence giving Eowyn all the affirmation that she needed. She stamped down on the anger that she felt. How could her people be so easily convinced? Did she really seem so frail of mind? Or was it Theoden's legacy that now worked against her? She set such thoughts aside, and pressed on with her questions. "Is that all they are saying?"

"Yes." The girl nodded her head vigorously

The answer came so quickly, Eowyn knew it was lie. "Do not think to fob me off with some falsehood. I am neither mad nor a fool. What else do they say?"

Scarlet heat burned the girl's cheeks. "Oh, my lady, please don't..."

"Hurt you?" Eowyn was growing impatient. "Have I not already given my word? Now speak."

The girl twisted the duster into a tight spiral as she summoned up the courage to give voice to her words. "It is said that in your grief you deny that the king is dead. That sometimes you can be heard, when you are alone in your chamber, speaking as though he still lives."

Eowyn's heart sank. Ceorl was a lot cleverer than she'd given him credit for. By spreading word that she was so grief-stricken she still believed Eomer alive, he had effectively ensured that none would now believe her when she spoke the truth. She cursed him silently, but made herself smile at the servant girl once more. "I thank you for your honesty," she said calmly. "As you can see, my mind is entirely whole and I am quite rational and not in the least bit dangerous. Now please, go about your cleaning."

Despite her best efforts, the girl still looked as though she would rather be anywhere in Edoras than in the chamber of the mad queen. Despondent Eowyn returned to the window and gazed once again across the city towards Edoras. Then suddenly her attention was caught by a grey horse, which was neighing loudly in one of the paddocks. Firefoot. The horse reared up, whinnied loudly and then galloped around the enclosure as though contemplating jumping the fence. "You miss him too, don't you?" Eowyn whispered.

Abruptly Firefoot stopped and pawed impatiently at the ground. Then he turned and, for one strange moment, seemed to look up at her before once again whinnying loudly. Eowyn felt hope stir in her belly at the sound. He was calling. Calling to his master. She couldn't explain why, but she knew that Firefoot had not given up on Eomer. That the horse somehow knew his master was out there somewhere. And if Firefoot still clung to hope, how could she not to the same? Eomer was strong. He would not easily give up his life or his kingdom. And if anyone could find him and bring him safely home it was Elfhelm.

--------------

Lothiriel could feel Elfhelm's eyes on her as she prepared to leave. Any moment now he was sure to attempt another protest and she felt herself tensing in anticipation. They'd travelled as close to Erika's village as they had dared. Now they were hiding in a small stand of trees midway between the village and the craggy hills within which the king was imprisoned.

"I still think this plan is ill-advised," Elfhelm said.

"And I still say we have no other choice," Lothiriel countered, relieved he'd finally spoken again. "Erika clearly cannot return to the village and now your face has been seen also." She swung a makeshift bundle of spare clothes and food onto her shoulder, and then patted Elfhelm's arm as he grunted unhappily. "I appreciate your fear for my safety, but trust me, having grown up with three brothers I know how to take care of myself."

"I doubt your brothers are anything like this witch," Elfhelm retorted.

Lothiriel refused to let his pessimism affect her spirits. "Thanks to Erika, I have everything I need to deal with Galwyn."

At the mention of her name, Erika stepped forward. "Are you sure you'll be able to find the meeting place? Have I described it well enough for you?"

Lothiriel smiled down at the younger woman. "Rarely have I been given such fine details. Do not worry. I will find you. And then, together, we will free the king."

"May the gods smile sweetly on that,' Eomer murmured. "Fair you well then, Lothiriel of Dol Amroth. May our next meeting be soon."

"Fair you well, Lord Elfhelm. Erika. Until the morrow."

With that, she set off on foot towards the village.

As she expected it was dusk by the time the small huddle of thatched homes came into sight. Nervousness welled up in her belly, stealing her breath from her, and she stopped for a moment to calm herself. She had heard many stories of witches and wizards as a child, but never before had she encountered one. Her earlier bravado in front of Elfhelm seemed to have faded with the daylight and she could not help but think how much more pleasant it would be to be entering the gates of Dol Amroth right now rather than heading towards some dark unknown. Turning back was not an option, no matter how nervous she might feel though. The key to Eomer's freedom quite literally lay ahead, and if she did not retrieve it then his blood would be as much on her hands as on anyone else's. She took a deep breath and walked towards the village.

A pair of chickens darted for cover as she strolled between the houses. A dog barked half-heartedly. Then ahead of her, a shadowy figure stepped from one of the homes.

"Greetings," Lothiriel called. "Can you tell me if I might find a generous soul who would give me lodgings in this place tonight?"

"What is a young woman doing in the northern plains of Rohan unaccompanied?" came back the reply. The voice was deep and masculine.

"That is a long story," Lothiriel answered. "But one I will gladly share if only I had a roof over my head."

There was a long silence, and then a second voice spoke from the gathering dark. This one female.

"If it is hospitality you are seeking, my lady, you had best come with me." A tall woman stepped from the shadows, holding up a lantern as she did so. "My name is Galwyn."

So it was to be straight into the serpent's lair. Lothiriel caught a glimpse of long, dark hair and thin, narrow features in the yellow light of the lantern. Behind Galwyn stood two burly males, one of whom Lothiriel recognised as Selred from the descriptions Elfhelm and Erika had given her. Fear caught in her throat as the danger of her actions became all too apparent. She forced the emotion away with effort and kept her voice calm, smiling at Galwyn. "Thank you. Although I have little to offer, I will do my best to repay your kindness."

"This way." Galwyn gestured towards the largest dwelling in the village - a cottage set slightly apart from the others. As Lothiriel followed her, the two men fell into step behind. Despite her best intentions, a shiver ran down her back and it was all she could do to stop herself turning to look at them. To her immense relief, though, Galwyn addressed them when she reached the door.

"You can go now. We will be well enough alone."

"If you're sure," Selred growled, giving Lothiriel a dark look.

"Quite sure," Galwyn replied, clearly unhappy at the suggestion that she would feel otherwise.

"Good night then." Selred sauntered off, whistling tunelessly, his companion in tow.

The interior of the cottage was divided into two small rooms: a living area and a small bedroom. Both were surprisingly well furnished. Lothiriel caught a glimpse of a thick velvet covering on the bed as well a rich, upholstered bedside chair and an ornately carved table. The living area was well stocked with food - two hams hung by the fireplace, a large sack of flour leaned against one wall, and jars of herbs were stacked on shelves. On the table was a large bowl filled with eggs, a loaf of fresh bread, a jar of honey and a pat of dark, golden butter. The sight of so much food filled her with a quiet anger as she remembered Erika's tale that the king was given barely enough to sustain a child each day, let alone a grown man.

"You live well," she observed, the words escaping her mouth before she could stop them.

Galwyn's mouth tightened. "Not as well as some."

"I will gladly pay for both a meal and a bed," Lothiriel said quickly. She pulled a comb from her hair and held it out to Galwyn. "However, I'm afraid I cannot offer coin, only this. My escort proved to be a pair of ruffians who took my purse and my horse, and left me to fend for myself at the first opportunity."

"Your horse?" Galwyn looked genuinely shocked. "Not men of Rohan, I trust, for they would not do such a thing."

"No, not men of Rohan. I am Gondorian by birth. I was married - briefly - to a rider of the Westmark. He was killed in the war." Lothiriel adopted a suitably sad expression. "For a while I tried to keep the farm going with two bondsmen who had been willingly gifted to my husband by my family. When the farm failed I suggested we travel to Edoras. I hoped the king might have mercy on a widow of Rohan and grant me and my servants a roof over our heads and food in exchange for work in the fields of Edoras."

Galwyn snorted. "You might as well ask a dwarf for gold as ask the king for charity." She took the comb and studied it carefully.

"It is carved from the bone of a sea creature," Lothiriel said.

"It's pretty enough, I suppose." Galwyn pocketed the comb.

"I'm sure you could trade it if you do not desire it for yourself." She hesitated and then casually asked. "You have heard bad things of our new king?"

Galwyn gave her a sharp look. "There are some who believe it would have been better if Eomer of Rohan had died on the battlefield instead of Theoden-King." She gestured to the table. "Help yourself to bread and honey. There is fresh milk in the jug or, if you prefer, there is ale in that barrel over there."

"Thank you." Lothiriel replied, deciding it was probably wiser to let the subject of Eomer drop. She moved to the table and surveyed its contents. Once again anger stirred in her belly as she saw a small basket containing stale bread sitting beneath the table. She pulled her gaze away from the evidence of Galwyn's treatment of the king and forced herself to smile at the woman. "May I serve you something?"

"There's no need. We eat early in these parts."

"At least join me in a mug of ale," Lothiriel said, still smiling warmly. "Forgive me, but I would consider it rude to both eat and drink while my host partakes of nothing."

Galwyn huffed. "We retire early in these parts too."

Unperturbed Lothiriel took two mugs from a shelf. "I must confess I am mightily tired after a day of wandering by foot with scarce a notion as to where I am going." She turned her back on Galwyn as she filled the first mug with rich, foaming beer. Glancing over the shoulder, she saw the older woman had gone into the bedroom. She cursed silently. If Galwyn had retired for the night, her plan would be made all the more difficult. Turning back to the barrel, she hastily slipped a dark brown powder into the second mug, dissolved it in a small amount of ale and then filled the mug to the brim. She turned round, mugs in hand, to find Galwyn standing in the bedroom doorway, a blanket in her arms.

"You can sleep by the fire," Galwyn said, dropping the blanket on the rushes by the hearth. "I only have the one bed and I prefer not to share it with a stranger."

"Of course. I will be perfectly happy here." Lothiriel took a seat at the table, cut herself a slice of bread and spread it with honey. "Please, will you not join me? I poured you some ale."

With obvious reluctance Galwyn sat. Lothiriel picked up her mug and held it up as she made a toast. "To a better future," she said. She paused, willing Galwyn to pick up her own mug. For a long moment, the older woman scrutinised her carefully, then at last she took the mug in her right hand and clinked it against Lothiriel's.

"To a better future," she repeated, and then calmly added. "May it be one in which our enemies suffer that which they deserve."

A chill crept over Lothiriel at the vehemence of Galwyn's tone, but she hid her unease by drinking deeply. Across the table Galwyn did likewise, emptying her mug in a single draught. She set the mug down and wiped her mouth with her hand. Eyeing Lothiriel coldly, she rose. "Don't waste the oil in the lantern by taking long to retire to bed."

"I won't," Lothiriel replied. "Sleep well." She watched the older woman head into the bedroom and offered up a silent prayer to the gods. Oh yes, indeed, sleep well, Galwyn.

--------------

Selred was also drinking ale. Alone in his small cottage he filled his mug afresh and then returned to his seat by the fire. He was frightened - an emotion that did not sit well with him and which the ale seemed unable to numb. Perhaps he should've told Galwyn the truth when he returned from the wood. It had been simpler to lie, though. So much easier to tell her that the healer was no more, that he'd done what she'd bid him to do.

It was, however, Galwyn's fault that he had failed in the task. She should've known about the rider in the wood, should've warned him. If he'd been prepared, he could've taken the man on. Instead he had been caught off-guard, his thoughts on having the girl instead of protecting himself. He swallowed another mouthful of ale to choke down the notion that he had become too dependent on Galwyn's skill with the black arts to forewarn him of danger. But why had she not seen the rider or sensed his presence? Was it true that the flames of foresight were not all seeing? That the black arts were not capable of wielding power over all men?

And now there was this woman in the village. A noblewoman by the looks of her. Was it just coincidence? He ought to tell Galwyn the truth. Then she could decide. He shivered at the thought. She might kill him for lying to her. He knew she had cursed men for less, and then laughed as they'd grown sick and died. Galwyn, daughter of Galmod was a cruel and spiteful woman. Just ask the king.

The king. There was something else to be afraid of. If, by some bizarre twist of fate, Eomer of Rohan was to escape, it would be the end. Selred had no doubt the king would hunt him down and exact a severe revenge upon him. For his own sake he should warn Galwyn there was a rider near by and that Erika was in his company. They should kill Eomer now. If Galwyn wanted him to die painfully that was fine by him. He would happily make him scream for her, would even make him beg for the suffering to be over. Perhaps that would amuse Galwyn - to watch her enemy reduced to a state in which he would take his own life gladly. For his own part, all that mattered was that the king should die sooner rather than later. Keeping him alive was foolish and risky. Especially now.

He finished his ale and wandered outside to empty his bladder. As he did so, he glanced towards Galwyn's cottage. There were no lights burning. Presumably both Galwyn and her unexpected guest were asleep. Fear danced along his shoulders once again. Perhaps he should kill them all and be done with it. He could then take his money and run. Rumour had it there were plenty of opportunities for those with money to invest in Gondor. He finished his task, tucked himself away and headed back indoors. Tempting. It was very tempting.

--------------

Lothiriel wasn't sleeping. She was listening. Listening and waiting. In the other room Galwyn's breathing slowed. Still Lothiriel waited. It was hard to judge how much time was passing, but she did not dare act too soon. Erika had said the powder did not always work exactly the same way. Sometimes the herbs used in making it were stronger or weaker depending on the season. Sometimes the person to whom they were given was more or less susceptible.

Finally, though, Lothiriel couldn't bear to lie motionless by the fire any longer. Throwing off her blanket, she moved slowly and silently to the bedroom door. In the faint moonlight, she could barely make out the contents of the room, but fortunately she knew the layout from her brief glimpse earlier. Treading as softly as she could she made her way towards the bed.

A soft snore from Galwyn startled her, and she froze, her heart pounding. Bedclothes rustled. And then there was nothing but the sound of deep, even breathing once again. Lothiriel relaxed her tense muscles and inched forward. She had hoped Galwyn might remove her dress before retiring, but such luck was not with her. The older woman was still clad in her dark robe.

Hardly daring to breathe herself, Lothiriel slowly pulled back the bedclothes. Galwyn did not stir. So far so good, but now for the tricky part. Trying to disturb the sleeping woman as little as possible, Lothiriel began to feel along the folds of Galwyn's robe, seeking a pocket. It seemed like an eternity before she felt the hard shape of a key beneath the fabric. But where was the opening?

She started again as Galwyn suddenly muttered something. Every instinct told her to flee. That being caught searching through a witch's clothing was not probably a very good way of ensuring one would die a nasty death. But then the rhythmic breathing began once more. Her hands were shaking badly now, and she took a moment to steady them before once again feeling her way along the seam of the robe.

There! At last. She slid her hand into the pocket and folded her fingers around the cool metal key. Now, with agonising care, she withdrew it inch by inch. When at last it was free she slipped silently from the room, gathered up her belongings and hurriedly stepped out into the night.

Cool air brushed against her face and she suddenly realised her skin was damp with sweat. She sucked in a deep breath, rubbed her fingers against the smooth metal of the key just to reassure herself she had indeed succeeded in her task, and then she headed around the side of Galwyn's cottage, intending to leave the village by the least obvious route.

She had barely gone twenty paces when a figure suddenly loomed in front of her.

"In a hurry to leave?" said a male voice, the tone dark and malevolent.

Cold fear grabbed hold of her as she recognised the voice.

It was Selred.


	12. Into the light

_A/N – First a few replies to those who reviewed the last chapter._

_Eokat – First to review as always g Thanks for spotting the typos._

_Lady Scribe – More Eomer for you this time._

_Haldir's Heart and Soul – Lothiriel thanks you for the advice._

_Naughty-by-Nature – Hopefully I'll be able to post regular updates from now on. I've tried to make this part a bit longer too._

_Elegant Couture and Lindahoyland – thanks for your continued support. Sorry about the cliffhanger. I couldn't resist. Me bad._

_Now... Lothiriel is keen to get on with the story!_

_------------------------------------------_

**Chapter 12 – Into the light**

Lothiriel resisted the urge to step backwards, knowing that to do so would make her seem weak. Although her stomach was turning to water, she knew the only way out of this situation was to take control verbally, to act as though she was in charge even though he was clearly stronger and bigger. She tilted her head haughtily.

"I do not believe I am required to give account of my movements to you."

"Is that so," he sneered.

"Indeed," she replied with far more confidence than she actually had. "Kindly let me pass."

"I'm afraid I cannot do that. What kind of gentleman would I be to allow a beautiful woman to travel abroad alone in the dark?" His tone was still mocking. His concern false.

"I neither require nor welcome your concern," she snapped. "Now step aside."

His smile widened. "No." he said, lurching forward to grab her.

She was ready for that, though. Twisting to her right, she evaded his reach and broke into a sprint, her hand feeling for the small knife she had concealed in her bodice. Behind her Selred cursed, and then she heard the heavy footfalls of his pursuit. She knew, of course, that it was unlikely she could outrun him. She was lighter and perhaps faster over a short distance, but he was strong and would easily outpace her over time. Her fingers curled round the hilt of the knife, and she pulled it free, taking care to keep it out of his line of vision. Her breath was coming in gasps now, and her skirt had grown damp with sweat and was clinging to her legs, hampering her movement. She yelped as a heavy hand clamped down on her left shoulder, yanking her to a violent stop. With a fear-fuelled howl of aggression she let Selred swing her round, using the momentum to slash out with her knife.

He bellowed as he saw the blade and leapt back. For one wild moment she thought she succeeded in wounding him. A moment later, though, he lashed out at her, knocking the blade from her hand.

"Cut me with a knife would you?" he snarled.

She staggered back, but this time he was too quick for her. Thick fingers closed around her wrist and she was pulled up against him. His breath was hot and foul as he hissed into her face. "Now it's my turn to have some fun." His free hand moved to the lacing of her bodice. Desperately she tried to knee him in the groin, but he'd already anticipated her move, and she found herself unceremoniously spun round so her back was to him. She cursed as he wrapped her tightly to him with his left arm and renewed his assault on her clothing with his right hand. Glinting in the moonlight she saw her knife lying on the grass. Beyond her reach, the blade seemed to be mocking her. Stupid, it whispered. Stupid to think she could succeed in stealing the key and escaping.

Selred groaned into her ear and she cried out as she was forced to the ground by his weight on her back. Crushed beneath him, she knew what would happen then. He clearly intended to force himself upon her. Tears of fear and frustration welled, but she refused to let them spill. She might not be able to stop him taking her body, but she would not give him the satisfaction of relinquishing total control. Instead she would spit in his face and mock him as he took her. She tensed, waiting for him to flip her on to her back.

Selred didn't move.

Shocked she thought she heard someone call her name. Then suddenly Selred's weight was dragged off her. She rolled over, grabbing her knife and holding it up in a trembling hand as she stared into the face of... "Elfhelm?"

"Are you alright, my lady?"

"Elfhelm?" She slowly pushed herself into a sitting position. "What in the name of the gods are you doing here?" Trembling she stared at the Selred's unconscious body, sprawled in the grass next to her.

"Rescuing you it would seem," he said dryly.

"I thought I told you to stay with the horses," she said, still barely able to believe he was standing in front of her. He leaned down, grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet.

"You did, but fortunately I do not always do what I'm told any more than you do." He glanced towards the village. Lights were burning in many of the cottages and the pinpricks of yellow that were people carrying lanterns were beginning to head their way. "We need to get out of here? Did you get the key?"

Lothiriel quickly thrust her hand into her pocket. "Yes," she said, relieved to find it was still there.

"Let's go then."

"What about him," Lothiriel asked. "Is he..."

"Dead? No, though he deserves to be. I didn't dare run him through for fearing of injuring you. He'll wake with a headache worse than any hangover though." He glanced at Lothiriel, his face contorted with conflicting emotions. "I cannot strike a man dead while he is unconscious."

She shivered. "I would not ask you to, even though it's what he deserves."

He grabbed her arm, urging her forward. "We really have to move."

Together they fled into the night.

-----------------------------

It was almost dawn when Erika led them to a spot at the top of a steep grassy incline. "There," she said, pointing to the craggy rock face on the opposite side of the narrow valley floor.

Elfhelm pulled his horse to a halt next to the one Lothiriel and Erika were sharing, and studied the cave mouth, seeking out the telltale signs of guards. As far as he could see there was no one around. "No guards?" he asked.

"They were none when last I was here," Erika said.

Lothiriel slid from the saddle and squinted across the valley. "Galwyn was no doubt confident that everyone believed the king to be dead."

Elfhelm shuddered at how close that had come to being true. He dismounted and joined Lothiriel at the edge of the slope that led down to the cave. "Give me the key. I will go." She opened her mouth to protest, but he silenced her with a sharp look. "We agreed, did we not, that we each have different skills. If there is anyone other than the king inside that cave, I believe I am best suited to dealing with them." His hand dropped to the hilt of his sword and he gave her a meaningful look. "I want you to stay with the horses. Really stay with them this time. If I don't return with Eomer, ride as fast as you can to Gondor and tell King Elessar all that you know. Do not enter the cave."

For once she didn't argue with him. Her face was grave as she handed over the key. "Be careful," she said.

He nodded curtly and then made his way down to the valley floor. Glancing up at the two women, he was relieved to see they were well hidden and the horses were out of sight. If Erika was wrong and there were guards in the cave... He stopped that line of thought, knowing it was bad luck to think of death when facing danger. Fate had a way of delivering what was expected. Better instead to imagine himself walking out of the cave with Eomer at his side.

He'd reached the mouth of the cave now and he could feel the chill in the air from its shadowy interior. Pressed against the outside wall, he drew his sword, taking care to not let the sharp metal hiss against the scabbard as he did so, then he leaned forward, peering into the darkness. There was no obvious movement. His ears gave no warning of unwanted occupants. His heart was beating faster now and the familiar tension of pre-battle nerves wrapped around him like chain mail. Slowly he stepped inside, taking care to keep to the walls, every sense alert to possible attack. As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom he made out a chair by cold, dead fire, a couple of barrels, a table. His footsteps silent, he pressed deeper into the darkness until at last he made out the bars of the cell.

"Eomer?" he hissed.

There was no reply.

He moved closer, peering into the cell now. For a moment he thought it was empty except for a large pile of rags on the floor and his heart sank. Was he too late? Had a message somehow been sent from the village, and the king removed to another location? Had they really travelled so far only to be foiled now? He was about to turn away when the sound of a ragged intake of breath caught him by surprise. Spotting a lantern and a flint on the table, he sheathed his sword and snatched them up. Moments later a dim yellow light lit the darkness and, with a rush of relief, he realised that the bundle of rags was in fact the king. He was lying with his back to the door, curled beneath a filthy blanket. Whether he was asleep or unconscious, Elfhelm couldn't tell, but he was definitely alive. Thank the gods, he was alive.

"Eomer." Elfhelm risked calling his name aloud, as he set the lantern down and thrust the key into the lock. The king stirred. The key finally turned and he yanked the cell door open. "Eomer, it's me. Elfhelm."

"Elfhelm?" Eomer rolled slowly onto his back and stared up at him in disbelief. "Is it really..." He raised one arm and rubbed at his eyes, revealing the bandaged splint that still held his broken bone in place. His gaze drifted to the open door as he sat up, and suspicion narrowed his eyes. "Is this some new trickery?"

The question was like a punch to the stomach. Elfhelm had expected to be greeted with relief and perhaps even joy, certainly not suspicion. Clearly Eomer had not simply been held captive for the past few days. Someone – Galwyn, no doubt – must have been playing mind games with him. Anger pooled in Elfhelm's stomach at the thought, and his voice was harsher than he intended when he spoke again. "Aye, it's really me, Sire." He raised the lamp higher so that Eomer could see him more clearly, but as he did so he sucked in a sharp breath at what his own eyes saw. Erika had warned him of Eomer's physical state but even so it was a shock to see the king dressed in ill-fitting rags, his hair matted with dirt and an ugly dark bruise marring one side of his face. "By the gods, Eomer, whoever did this to you will pay dearly." He held out his hand. "Come. Let's get you out of here."

He leaned forward intending to help Eomer to his feet, and was shocked when the king flinched. He'd never seen Eomer react in such a way to anything. Even as a boy, he had been fearless. "Everything's going to be alright," he said as though soothing a skittish colt. "It's over, Eomer. Do you understand? It's over." He held out his hand again but this time did not try to help the king up. Perhaps after days of captivity it was not surprising that rescue should come as a shock. Hopefully all Eomer needed was a few moments to realise it was really happening.

The king stared at the proffered hand for a long moment, and then ran his tongue over scabbed lips. "Over," he repeated softly, as though still trying to convince himself. Then, at last he reached out, grabbed Elfhelm's hand and lurched to his feet. He swayed wildly, and Elfhelm immediately stepped forward, sliding one arm around his waist to steady him.

"Sorry," Eomer murmured.

Elfhelm frowned. He knew Eomer had been half-starved for the past few days, but surely lack of food should not have made him that weak so soon. "Are you unwell?" he asked.

That produced a snort of bitter laughter from Eomer. "Now that you are here, my friend, and now that door is open, I am very well." He attempted to smile, but it looked more like a grimace and did little to reassure Elfhelm. "'Tis nothing but a bit of dizziness from rising too quickly with a stomach that has not seen enough food. It will pass." He pulled in a deep breath and then eased himself from Elfhelm's grip. "There, see."

"Aye, my lord." Elfhelm had seen hour-born colts looking sturdier on their feet, but since this was not the time or the place to fuss over the king's health, and there was little to be gained by contradicting the king he kept the thought to himself. Far more pressing was the need to get out of the cave and then put a distance between themselves and anyone that might, even now, be tracking them from the village. "Follow me," he said brusquely, trusting that the king would, on this occasion, forgive him for taking command of the situation.

Eomer smiled at being ordered around by his Marshall. Rescue. It was the one thing that had given him hope through the long, dark hours. Now it was here he was shocked to find himself suddenly close to tears. He took a deep breath and swallowed hard, reining in his wayward emotions. This was hardly the moment to start crying like a baby. Crying over the death of a comrade was one thing. Tears at the sight of an open cell door was something else all together. He was, after all, the King of Rohan. He was a warrior. And now, thank the gods, he was a free man.

"Eomer?" Elfhelm had stopped ahead of him and was now looking back, concern creasing his weather-beaten face. "Are you coming?"

Shocked, Eomer realised he was still standing in the cell. Feeling more than a bit foolish, he forced his leaden legs to move and tried not to notice how weak he felt. Soon he would get to eat a decent meal, he promised himself. Then the throbbing in his head would stop. The cramping of his muscles would ease. And this irritating dizziness would cease. Soon. Very soon. All he had to do now was put one foot in front of the other and let Elfhelm lead him to freedom.

Owww! He put one hand up to shade his eyes as he stepped into the daylight. After days in darkness and gloom, it was almost unbearable, and it notched the pain in his head up a degree. Within seconds, though, his brain adapted to the new stimulus, and as he drew in a lungful of clean fresh air he was able to appreciate the beauty of being out in the open. The colours all seemed so vibrant. The wind on his face was like a lover's caress. The scent of the air was a feast to his senses. How easy it was to take such luxuries for granted when they were freely available. And how precious they seemed now as he followed Elfhelm across the flat bottom of the valley. Even the dampness of the ground against his bare feet was a pleasure. Suddenly, though, he realised where the Marshall was leading him and he came to an abrupt halt.

"Up there?" he asked, looking in dismay at the steep, grass-covered incline. He felt sweat trickle down his back from exertion of the short walk and although he was reluctant to admit it even to himself, he was finding it difficult to draw enough air into his lungs. Right now scaling the bank of green seemed about as feasible as climbing up Mount Doom itself.

"Horses await us at the top," Elfhelm said.

"Right." Eomer gritted his teeth. He could do this. He would do this.

---------------------

The sound of laboured breathing and what sounded like a steady stream of Rohirric cursing told Lothiriel that someone was nearly at the top of the incline. Shooting Erika a nervous look, she drew her dagger and peered round the foliage they were hiding around. "It's Elfhelm," she hissed, relief flooding through her. She stepped into the open, and realised that it wasn't Elfhelm who was swearing.

"The king?" she asked, her heart suddenly pounding in her chest.

"Right here," growled a deep voice.

As Eomer took the final step onto flat ground, Lothiriel caught a glimpse of matted, dirty blonde hair and a flash of surprise in his eyes as he saw her. Then he bent over, his hands resting on his thighs as he struggled to catch his breath, and all she could see was the rags he was dressed in and the dirty bandaged splint on his left arm. So, this was the King of Rohan. The man Faramir had been so eager for her to meet. No doubt, this was not quite the first impression her cousin would've chosen.

"Are you alright, Eomer?" Elfhelm asked in concern.

Erika brushed past Lothiriel. "Does he sound alright?" she snapped. Before Elfhelm could reply, she was standing in front of Eomer, one hand resting on his back. She frowned. "My lord, are you in pain?"

"No, no. I'm just... a bit..." Eomer straightened up, his eyes widening. "You're alive."

Erika raised an eyebrow. "I believe we were discussing your health?"

In response, Eomer said something that Lothiriel had no hope of understanding, but his actions made his feelings very clear. He grabbed Erika and pulled her into his arms, holding her as though he would never her go again.

An unwelcome emotion stabbed through Lothiriel. She turned away, conscious she was an outsider and embarrassed at the intimacy of the scene she was witnessing. So, the King of Rohan had already given his heart to another. Well, that was fine. After all, she hadn't set out to rescue him with any notion that the adventure might lead to romance. Her loyalty – her friendship – belonged to his sister.

"Eomer," Elfhelm called the king's name softly, and Lothiriel caught sight of the Marshall nodding towards her.

"Forgive me," Eomer said immediately, finally releasing Erika, who stood speechless by his side, her cheeks scarlet. "Galwyn told me Erika was dead. To see that she is not..." He sighed deeply, and looked once again at Erika.

"Elfhelm, let us not waste our time with introductions," Lothiriel said coldly. "Galwyn may already be awake, and if so, she is sure to organise pursuit." She turned towards the horses, ashamed at the feelings of envy that refused denial and angry at herself for their existence. She was no spoilt brat who expected the world to revolve around her so why did it suddenly hurt so much that a man she did not even know had not given her barely so much as a second look.

"Eomer," Elfhelm said, ignoring both her comment and her action. "This is Princess Lothiriel of Dol Amroth."

"My lady," Eomer called. "Please, I am sure the situation we find ourselves in is no doubt grave, but can you not at least spare one moment for me to express my gratitude, for I presume your presence here is not just one of idle passing."

Reminding herself that he was a king, she knew she had no choice but to turn and face him.

"We do not have time to tell you now of all that has gone on," Elfhelm said to Eomer. "But, it is true the princess has played a significant part in bringing about your freedom. Without her bravery and courage, we might never have succeeded in obtaining the key to your cell."  
  
Lothiriel shot Elfhelm an angry look. What did he think she was? Some prize horse who needed her good points highlighting to a prospective buyer? But then suddenly she realised she was the subject of Eomer's complete attention. The experience was not at all comfortable. Despite the bruising on his face, the matted hair and the filthy rags that he wore, there was no mistaking the fact that he was a handsome man. And though she told herself that his physical attractiveness was neither here nor there and that she had seen plenty of handsome men in her time, it was not so simple to ignore the intensity of his gaze. As he stepped closer, she saw his eyes were hazel – light brown flecked with green. Intelligent eyes that seemed to penetrate her body, stealing her breath away.

"I am indebted to you, Lothiriel of Dol Amroth," he said formally, his gaze never leaving her face. Reaching out he took her hand and pressed his lips to the back of it – the gesture one simply of court etiquette between a king and a princess. Why then did the touch of his lips send a rush of heat through her body? For a moment she was speechless, but then she saw Erika standing behind him.

She snatched her hand back and met his gaze with a calmness she did not feel. Her tone was cold again. "It is your sister you should be indebted to, my Lord. I am merely here at her request."

"My sister?" Eomer repeated. His expression suddenly hardened and he spun away. "Elfhelm, how do things fare in Edoras? Is it true that all but Eowyn believe me dead?"

"Aye, my Lord, but may I suggest we discuss this while moving? There may indeed be men in pursuit of us."


	13. What price freedom?

_A/N: Thank you once again to everyone who reviewed. You guys are terrific. Just one quick reply to Naughty-by-Nature – Good guess ;-)_

_On we go..._

**Chapter 13 – What price freedom?**

"King Elessar, there are riders behind us," said one of the rear guards of the Gondorian train as he drew level with the king. He slowed his horse to match the steady walk of the king's mount. "They carry the banner of the Prince of Ithilien."

"Faramir." Elessar spoke the name with soft affection. Of course, the prince too would be making his way to Rohan to pay his respects at Eomer's funeral. Grief caught at him again. He had expected to make this journey in a few weeks time to celebrate a wedding, not to say farewell to a dear friend. What fate had decreed could not be changed, however. Eomer was gone, and now the Riddermark had a queen. A queen betrothed to one of Gondor's most respected and valued men, which in itself bought fresh complications. How would Faramir combine his duties as Prince of Ithilien with those of a Consort-King of Rohan? Was it even possible to do so? He sighed heavily. Sometimes he longed for the days of his past, when he was free to travel the countryside and had nought to worry about except where his next meal was coming from. Today, however, was definitely not one of those days.

He twisted round in his saddle, caught sight of the dust cloud that indicated the riders, and then reined his horse to the right and trotted briskly towards the rear of the procession. A few moments later, the prince and his entourage caught up with them. Elessar dismounted, waited as Faramir did the same, and then greeted the prince by wrapping him in a tight bear hug.

"I had hoped for relief from days of dark news," he said. "The loss of Eomer is a bitter blow for Rohan and Gondor alike."

"I can scarcely comprehend the truth of it," Faramir replied, pulling off his gloves and wiping the sweat from his face. The two men began to walk behind the train, leading their horses by the reins. Silence hung between them, the mention of Eomer too raw a subject to draw them into conversation. Finally, though, Elessar broke the hush.

"Are you in a hurry to reach Rohan? For you are more than welcome to journey with us if the pace is not to leisurely for you." He was surprised when Faramir gave a bitter snort of laughter in reply.

"No, my king, I am in no hurry. In fact, I only make the journey at the insistence of my advisors."

Elessar frowned. "I don't understand. Did you and Eomer have some unhealed quarrel that I have not heard about?"

"No." Faramir appeared shocked at the notion. "Eomer was a good friend. One I shall miss sorely."

"Then why the reluctance?"

"You have not heard?"

Elessar's spirit fell further. "You have quarrelled with Eowyn?"

"If only I had. Then perhaps I could think kindly of her instead of which..." He trailed off, his jaw tight.

"Faramir?" Elessar probed, unable to comprehend a reason for the prince's obvious distress.

"She was ever fickle. I should have known better than to trust my heart to such a woman."

Elessar was shocked by both the words and the sharp tone. When last he had seen Eowyn and Faramir together, it had been clear to all that they were both deeply smitten. The image was one he had carried with glad relief, happy that the White Lady had finally found real love, and that Faramir, who had suffered tortuous rejection at his father's hand, had also found peace and joy. "Whatever are you talking about, man?"

"Did she not love you before me?" Faramir demanded.

The question caught him off-guard. Eowyn, beautiful, strong, fragile Eowyn. How easy it would've been to take what she had offered him in those dark days when he believed Arwen was lost to him. And how desperately wrong it would also have been. He sighed. Faramir deserved to hear the truth. "No. She did not. Although she believed that she did, it was not me that she was in love with."

"I don't understand."

"She dreamed of escape. Dreamed of a different life where she could be free and happy. When I arrived at Edoras, she thought I was the answer to that desire. In her mind, she reshaped who I really was into all that she longed for. It was never real, Faramir. I'm sure she would tell you that if you asked."

"Well, apparently I am not the answer to her dreams either." He kicked at a stone, sending it flying across the grass. "She has broken faith with me. We are no longer to be wed." His tone turned harder still. "The Queen of Rohan does not wish to taint her bed with a Gondorian consort."

"That is madness," Elessar said, barely able to believe his ears. "Faramir, forgive me for speaking bluntly but I know you have often suffered rejection, that indeed perhaps you have come to expect it, but surely in this you are mistaken."

In response, Faramir thrust his hand in his tunic and pulled out a piece of folded parchment. "Read it for yourself. The words are written in her own hand. There is no room for doubt."

Reluctant though he was to read another man's private letter, Elessar did as he was bid. When he finally handed the parchment back to Faramir, his face was grim. "I cannot believe she would act with such callousness unless there is some other influence at work. She suffered a great deal during the war, perhaps the loss of Eomer..."

"What? You think her mad?"

Elessar hesitated. "I do not think her behaviour rational." He looked Faramir in the eye, and felt pain at the hurt he saw there. "Do you truly love her?"

For a long moment, Faramir gazed into the distance towards Edoras, then finally he replied, his voice low and tinged with anguish. "With all my heart, Elessar. All my heart."

"Then do not give up on her so easily, my friend. Sometimes we have to fight for what we love, and though I cannot fathom a reason for it now, I suspect we may find there is more to her rejection of you than first meets the eye."

---------------------------------

"How could she have known about the key?" Galwyn ranted as she and Selred rode towards the cave. "Somebody must have told her. It must've have been one of your men."

Selred flinched inwardly at the accusation, and cast a surreptitious look at the four men who were following some distance behind. They were far enough away not to hear his reply, so if that was what Galwyn wanted to think, it was fine by him. Just so long as his part in events remained hidden. His hand wandered to the lump on the back of his head and he winced as his fingers pressed against it. "It would not surprise me. The only thing they are loyal to is money."

Galwyn snorted in disgust. "Yes. And don't think that I don't know the same greed for coin motivates you. I'll curse the lot of them. Make their tongues shrivel up in their mouths. They'll rue the day they ever thought to cheat me."

They were at the cave now. Galwyn gave Selred one last menacing look and then strode inside, cursing loudly when she reached the cell and found the door open and the king gone. Selred stood well back from her, aware that she carried a knife and was capable of venting her anger at anything, or anyone, who happened to be around. She could not, of course, best him in strength and speed, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

"I'll get him back," he said. "Trust me. My men and I will ride out. We'll catch him long before he comes in sight of Edoras."

"Light the fire," she snarled.

Dread washed over Selred. If Galwyn used the flames of farsight to seek the king, would she not also see the others? "Do not weary yourself with magic," he said, fake concern honeying his tone. "He is weak and cannot have travelled far. We can find him without your dark arts."

She glared at him, her face suspicious. "When did you start having a care for my well-being?"

He felt heat burn his cheeks. "Is it so wrong of me to do so?"

"Light the fire," she repeated.

Cursing silently, he knew he had no choice but to do as he was ordered. As soon as the flames were dancing he backed away once again. She didn't seem to notice, her concentration was on the yellow heat and the green dust in her hand. Dark words spilled from her mouth. There was a loud crack. And the fire turned emerald green. Galwyn's face contorted as she stared into flames, bending the magic to her will. Despite himself, Selred inched forward, fascinated by the image of the Rohan countryside.

"Ahhhh," Galwyn murmured. "There he is - with that wench seated before him. And they are not far. Not far at all. But wait, what is this?"

Selred immediately backed away as he saw the image widen out and two more riders came into focus. Moments later, Galwyn turned to him, her eyes narrowed with barely restrained fury.

"I can explain," he said quickly.

"You told me she was dead." Galwyn ground the words out between gritted teeth.

"The man she rides with came out of nowhere," Selred said breathlessly, panic squeezing his lungs. "Took me by surprise." He tilted his jaw, grasping at the first excuse that came to his mind. "It was you that insisted I go alone. Just a girl, you said."

"Do not blame this on me!" She stepped towards him, her face furious. Behind her, the fire spat and hissed, the flames reaching towards Selred like menacing fingers.

"So I made a mistake. You still need me, Galwyn. Or are you planning on going after him yourself?" It was bravado, but it seemed to have an effect. The flames died back, fading from green to palest yellow. Galwyn faltered as though suddenly drained of energy. Relieved, Selred recalled that the flames of farsight were not easy to control.

"Fortunately for you there is truth in your words." She pushed past him and sank into the waiting embrace of a chair.

Glad to still be alive, Selred was eager to make amends. "Just say the word and I will ride out with my men and return the king to you."

Galwyn drew in a shuddery breath. "You will indeed ride out with your men, but not to catch the king."

"I don't understand."

"You will ride out and, this time, fulfil your appointed tasks properly. The woman, the healer and this other rider - all must be killed before ever they reach Edoras. Understood?"

He nodded. "But what of the king?"

Her lips twisted into a grotesque smile. "Do you think me a fool, Selred? There was always the possibility that he would escape, and so I planned accordingly. He rides not to freedom and the reclaiming of his throne, but to death. My only regret is that I shall not be there to hear his agonised screams as it claims him."

------------------------

He'd drunk his fill of water from Elfhelm's canteen and he had food in his belly. So why didn't he feel any better? Eomer folded his good arm over his stomach and tried to deny the cramps that were twisting his innards. Perhaps it was simply that dried meat was too rich for him after a diet of stale bread. But then that didn't explain the fact that sweat was trickling down his back, yet he felt chilled to the bone. Nor was it reason for the throbbing in his head which seemed to worsen with each passing league.

He sucked in a sharp breath as another jolt of pain shot through him. Sitting in front of him, Princess Lothiriel stiffened and then discretely inched forward. He'd rarely shared his saddle with a woman, let alone one as beautiful as Lothiriel, and under different circumstances he would have made the effort to be entertaining, perhaps even charming. On this journey, though, the effort required to speak seemed too much. Once Elfhelm had told him all that was going on in Edoras, they had fallen into silence. Now all he could do was hope that Lothiriel wasn't thinking that she was the cause of his discomfort, because he didn't have the strength to tell her that was not the case.

A glance in the direction of the Marshall told him that Erika was watching him, concern on her face. Her gaze made him straighten his shoulders and sit more proudly in the saddle, but the movement sent another jagged pain through him that immediately destroyed all pretence that he was fine. He cursed silently to himself, angry at his body's refusal to do what he demanded of it. Discretely he reined the horse back, forcing it to fall in behind Elfhelm's mount so that Erika could no longer look at him. The action gave him no comfort, though. What kind of warrior must he appear? Riding hunched over like an old man. He certainly couldn't ride through the gates of Edoras in such a manner.

Edoras. That thought drove his focus from himself. He needed to make plans. Prepare a strategy for what might await. How much influence did Ceorl wield over Eowyn? Enough to prevent them from gaining access to the Golden Hall or perhaps even the city itself? And if everyone believed him dead? His head throbbed, stealing his ability to think. They knew so little about what was going on and there were too many variables. Perhaps Elfhelm was right and they should first ride to Gondor and ask Aragorn to loan them men in case they needed to take back Edoras by force of arms. But to fight his own people? And to leave Eowyn alone with Ceorl for longer than he had too.

He shivered, and was once again aware of the ache in his limbs and the sharp, twisting pain in his gut. He closed his eyes, seeking relief from the bright rays of the midday sun. Perhaps a few moments sleep would restore him. It wouldn't be the first time he'd slept in the saddle. Years of riding made it almost second nature. Yes, just a few minutes sleep...

----------------------

It had been something of a shock to find herself riding in front of the king. Of course it made sense in terms of weight balance. Elfhelm was heavier than Eomer, while Erika was lighter than herself. But were the Rohirrim really so caring of their horses that they would put a slight difference in weights before their personal desires? Surely Eomer would rather have had the woman he loved riding with him. Then again, perhaps he simply didn't want to be up close and personal with Erika in his current state. Lothiriel had quickly discovered that the King of Rohan was in need of a bath. Not that there was any surprise in that. The man had, after all, been held captive for several days. She almost laughed out loud at the thought of her report to Faramir. Yes, my dear cousin, I met the king. He was dressed in rags and smelt worse than any horse.

A soft groan from the object of her thoughts immediately sobered her. It wasn't the first sound of distress to escape him – there had been several sharp intakes of breath and he seemed ill at ease in the saddle. Being but a stranger to him, she hadn't felt at liberty to question him, but now his discomfort had clearly increased and she could no longer pretend not to have noticed. She was about to turn and ask what ailed him when his weight suddenly pressed against her back. Had he fallen asleep against her? She could certainly empathise with that for she longed for sleep herself. That he could not keep his eyes open would not be a surprise either given the trauma of being imprisoned, uncertain of rescue or even survival. Perhaps it was, therefore, not a groan, but a snore and she was fretting over nothing. Reluctant to disturb his rest, even though it was scarcely comfortable and more than a bit embarrassing to have his head resting on her shoulder, she decided to stay silent. However, as the horse plodded on, she suddenly became aware of a second sensation. Heat. She could feel the warmth of his skin seeping through the coarse wool of her riding dress. An unnatural warmth that did not speak of good health.

Alarmed now, she began to twist round. It was entirely the wrong thing to do.

"No. Eomer!" She grabbed for him as he slid sideways. It was too late. His unconscious body fell from the saddle, hitting the grassy plain with a soft thud. Horrified she stared at him, too shocked to act. He was face down - an untidy sprawl of limbs and dirty hair.

Elfhelm, who was riding in front, spun round. "Eomer!" He vaulted from the saddle, leaving a startled Erika to grab the reins. "By the Gods. Eomer. What is wrong?" He rolled the king over and gently tapped his cheek. No response.

"I think he's feverish," Lothiriel said, sliding from the saddle.

Erika reached the king ahead of her, placing one small hand against the king's forehead. Her eyes narrowed. "I fear this is no ordinary fever," she said.

Elfhelm's head jerked towards her. "What do you mean?"

In response, Erika addressed Lothiriel. "Did you notice anything before he passed out? Did he seem in discomfort or pain?"

"Well, I did think..."

A low groan from Eomer cut across her words. She looked down and found he was staring up at them, confusion and pain in his eyes. Then suddenly, what little colour was in his face drained away. He rolled away, drew himself up onto all fours and retched. Erika was by his side in an instant, swiftly drawing his hair out of the way and murmuring soothing words as he emptied the contents of his stomach onto the grassy plain. Lothiriel exchanged an anxious look with Elfhelm, then he turned away and fetched his water skin from his saddle bag.

It seemed like an age before the spasms finally relinquished their grip on Eomer. He pushed himself away from the pool of vomit, and sat hunched on the grass, legs drawn up to his chest, his forehead resting on his knees, one arm curled protectively over his stomach.

"Here." Elfhelm held out the water skin. Eomer glanced up, bleary eyed, and then shook his head. "Drink," Elfhelm said, pulling out the stopper and thrusting the skin at his king.

Obediently, Eomer reached for the skin, but before he could grasp it, he groaned and curled over, swearing to himself.

Lothiriel wrapped her arms around her own stomach in empathy and wished she could do something - anything - to ease his pain.

"Where does it hurt?" Erika demanded, once again dropping to her knees in front of him. She smoothed his sweat-dampened hair back from his face.

"Everywhere," he said through gritted teeth.

"I need you to be more precise," she said, earning herself a blazing look from him.

"Stomach." He groaned again as though the very mention of the offending body part racked him with pain. "Headache. Cramps... everywhere." He sucked in a sharp breath and met her gaze. "What's wrong with me? It isn't just lack of food, is it?" A bead of sweat ran down his face, and she gently reached out to wipe it away.

"I can't be sure," she said softly.

Elfhelm stepped forward. "If you have even half an idea of what ails him you should speak it, girl."

Reluctance shadowed Erika's face as she looked at the Marshall. "I think he's been poisoned."


	14. Loyalty and oaths

A/N: Once again, thank you for all the lovely reviews. Really appreciate it. Apologies to people who have had problems trying to review. I have no idea why that is. If anyone more familiar with can suggest a reason/solution, please do.

Now, back to the King of Rohan and his problems.

**Chapter 14 – Loyalty and oaths**

"Poison?" Eomer was shocked. "That makes no sense. Galwyn needed me alive as a hold over Eowyn. Why would she poison me?"

Erika's brow furrowed in thought. "When did these symptoms begin?"

Eomer gave a bitter laugh. "Until Elfhelm enlightened me I did not even know what day it was nor how long I had been imprisoned. How can I answer such a question?"

"I presume they were not present the first time I came to you. What of the second time?"

"I don't know." He didn't mean to sound so ill-tempered, but his head throbbed and his stomach was twisted into agonising knots. Could she not see that all his strength was being used in resisting the urge to curl up and embrace his misery on the soft grass of the plain?

"Please, my lord. It could be important."

The raw appeal on her face reached through his pain. He bit back the urge to curse and instead did his best to concentrate on her question. "I was dizzy. Remember? I nearly fell and you asked me about it."

Erika's eyes narrowed. "Yes. I recall. What else? Any little piece of information might help."

He clenched his jaw as another wave of pain rippled through him. Think. He had to think. "There was a day, or at least I think it was a day, when Galwyn did not come and I had neither bread nor water. I think that was when the cramps began." He frowned. "But when she did come, they lessened. Surely if there was poison in what she gave me they would've grown worse not better?"

Lothiriel dropped onto her knees in front of him. "Galwyn is both cruel and clever. What if she created a poison that has but a small effect when taken regularly, but which the body craves if denied? It would be perfect – weakening you slowly while you are her prisoner, but having a devastating effect should you escape."

Eomer sucked in another pained breath. "If that is the case, what would you suggest? That I return to my cell?" His patience was just about exhausted and he was unable to prevent the sarcasm. All this talk was serving little purpose.

"No, of course not," Lothiriel said, unperturbed by his sharpness. "But if we can work out how the poison is affecting you, perhaps we can find a way to fight it." She looked hopefully towards Erika, but was disappointed to see the healer frown in response. "You can do that, right?"

"Ask me about fever and chills. A child's rash or cough. These are things I know how to cure. But poison..." She trailed off.

It was what Eomer had suspected. Erika might be skilled with broken bones and bruises, but she did not have answers to everything. "We're wasting time," he said, not wanting to think about the possible outcome of the situation he now found himself in. With grim determination he pushed himself to his feet and headed towards the horses. "We ride for Edoras."

Erika and Lothiriel both climbed to their feet, but nobody moved to follow him. Worse, they were now talking about him as though he wasn't there. Was this what happened when a man emptied his stomach in public? Suddenly he was an invalid whose decisions could be ignored? He saw Elfhelm shift his weight uncomfortably as the three of them formed a huddle.

"Is it not possible that vomiting has purged the poison from his body?" Elfhelm said.

"Ordinarily, yes," Erika replied. "But without knowing what poison it is or how much he's been given, who can say. And if Lothiriel is right about Galwyn's intention..."

"But we cannot be sure of that," he said. "You said yourself that you did not know of any poison that acts in such a way."

"Unfortunately our lack of knowledge does not make it impossible," Lothiriel said.

"Elfhelm, the open countryside is no place for a sick man," Erika said. "There is a holding a few leagues from here where once I helped the wife through a difficult birth. We would be made welcome there and offered protection should Selred track us."

Lothiriel nodded. "She's right, Elfhelm. We should find shelter. Somewhere with access to fresh water and..."

"Elfhelm!" Eomer barked the Marshall's name. "I may be sick but unless I am very much mistaken I am still the king." He swung himself up into the saddle, desperately trying not to reveal what an effort it was to do so. There were more important things at stake than his health right now. Eowyn was alone with Ceorl – a situation he was desperate to remedy. He gestured impatiently to Lothiriel to join him. "We have wasted time enough."

Elfhelm finally stepped towards him, but there was appeal on his face, rather than obedience. "Eomer..."

"Enough!" he snarled, his patience finally snapping. "By the gods, Elfhelm, have I not made myself clear enough? We ride to Edoras."

----------------

The woods. At last. Elfhelm felt a moment of brief relief, but as he turned to speak to Eomer his mood darkened again. The king looked terrible. Even in the poor light of dusk, the pallor of his face was apparent. His skin glistened with an unhealthy sweat that made his ragged clothes cling damply to his body and caused his hair to hang in lifeless strands. At least he was alert, though. Several times during the afternoon Elfhelm had twisted round in his saddle to check on Eomer, and found him with his head resting against Lothiriel's back, either asleep or unconscious. The princess had said nothing, but it was clear from her face she was exhausted from bearing his weight.

They were all exhausted.

With the possible exception of Eomer, none of them had slept the previous night. And now they'd been travelling all day; pushing the horses as fast as they dared. With two riders to each saddle, progress had been slower than Elfhelm would have liked. His nerves were strained from constantly listening for riders in pursuit. Whatever head start they may have had was sure to have been lessened with each passing league, and he was surprised they had reached the woods without being intercepted. Now, though, he was painfully aware they could go no further.

"Eomer," he said. "Darkness will fast be upon us. We must rest." He saw the king frown and pre-empted his protest. "We will do ourselves no favour if we wear out the horses." Reluctant acceptance washed over Eomer and he nodded, not wasting his energy on speech. Elfhelm glanced towards the woods again, wondering where it would be best to spend the night. He knew there was a small stream that meandered in a seemingly random pattern. They could water the horses and then press deeper into the trees. He glanced at Eomer again, and decided not to burden him with the details of his plan. Right now, staying in the saddle seemed to be task enough for the king.

When at last they had found a place to pass the night, he settled the horses, and ate a swift meal of dried meat and hard biscuits. Erika encouraged Eomer to eat, but he barely swallowed two mouthfuls before retching. After that he refused anything other than a few sips of water, and was now sitting with his back against a tree, his head tilted back and his eyes closed. He looked far younger and far more vulnerable than Elfhelm could ever recall. Wishing that he could offer more in the way of comfort, he removed his cloak and wrapped it around Eomer's shoulders, giving him a look that forbade protest.

"We must set a watch," Eomer said. "Take turns to act as look-out."

"Do not trouble yourself. It is already sorted."

"I will take a turn," Eomer said with grim determination.

That caught the attention of the women. "You will do no such thing," Lothiriel said. "You need to rest. Is that not so, Erika?"

"Indeed it is," the young healer replied. "Lothiriel and I will take turns with Elfhelm. You will sleep."

Elfhelm realised that he was not the only one staring at the king with an expression that broked no argument as Eomer opened his mouth to protest. Lothiriel was standing over him with her hands on her hips, and Erika, for all her young looks and small stature, was doing a passable impression of an immovable mountain. Faced with such a united front, Eomer gave a rueful smile and raised his hands in submission. "It appears I have fallen into the hands of three of the most bossiest people in Middle Earth."

"We are simply concerned for your wellbeing," Elfhelm said, taking what pleasure he could in Eomer's mellow mood. If a short time out of the saddle had revived Eomer enough to complain of their fussing, perhaps he would have regained his strength by morning. Perhaps he was not as sick as Erika believed after all.

"And I am grateful for it," Eomer replied, then softly added, "Even though it makes me feel more like a child than a king."

"I seem to remember that when you were a child, you were just as stubborn about admitting to being unwell," Elfhelm said.

"You would have acted likewise if you'd had to suffer some of the remedies concocted by the healers. I swear they made every potion taste as foul as possible on purpose," Eomer retorted. He glanced up at Erika. "No offence to you, my lady."

"None taken, Sire. However, I will take offence if you do not rest."

Obediently Eomer pulled the cloak tighter and settled down to sleep. Elfhelm, Lothiriel and Erika exchanged a satisfied look over his head, and set about their duties.

-------------

Elfhelm woke with a jerk, his hand flying to the hilt of his sword.

"'Tis only me, my Lord. Forgive me for startling you."

He felt a soft hand fold over his, and discovered himself looking up at Erika. He pushed himself into a sitting position. It was still dark beneath the canopy of trees, but he could tell from the scent in the air that dawn was not far off. "What's wrong?" he demanded seeing the worry on her face.

She glanced over her shoulder to where Eomer was lying, a huddled shadow at the foot of a tree. "He grows worse. I do not know if he will have the strength to sit astride a horse today. And even if by some miracle he does, I can guarantee that tomorrow he will not." She paused, allowing Elfhelm time to absorb her words. "We cannot continue to Edoras."

"What are you saying?"

"I am saying, my Lord, that the king is not fit enough to make the journey. We must go back – to the holding I told you of."

"You heard what he said last night. He ordered us to Edoras. He will never agree to your suggestion."

"What if we do not tell him?"

Elfhelm stared at her in astonishment. "Are you suggesting we lie to the king?"

"I am suggesting we do not enlighten him as to our true destination. Elfhelm, unless I am very much mistaken, he will be beyond noticing that the sun is not where it ought to be."

"I cannot do that," Elfhelm said horrified. "I have sworn oaths to this man. Oaths of loyalty. Of honour. I will not lie to him."

"So, you will obey him even if it means he is riding to his death?"

He was shocked at the bluntness of her words. "You do not know what you are asking of me."

"Yes, I do," Erika replied. "Oaths and honour cost me the life of the man I loved. And though I mourn every day for his loss, I do not feel anger for the cause for which his blood was spilled. I love Rohan, Elfhelm, and I wish to see it in the hands of a good and wise king as much as you do. That is why you must do this. I cannot treat him here. Perhaps I will not be able to do at the holding either, but at least there I can try. Out here in the woods I have no medicines and no time to gather herbs when we are in danger of being discovered at any moment."

"Lie to the king?" Elfhelm said slowly, trying to comprehend such a deed.

"As I said, it may be possible to avoid actually lying."

"But we cannot avoid going deliberately against his order."

She did not reply to that. Elfhelm huffed out a breath. He heard it said that sometimes it was necessary to engage in a small evil in order to bring about a greater good. It was a philosophy he had never subscribed to. Until now. Erika was right. Rohan needed Eomer. What was the point in trying to reach Edoras quickly if he died in the attempt?

The sound of a breaking twig alerted him to Lothiriel's approach. "I could not help but overhear," she said.

Elfhelm glanced nervously at Eomer, and was relieved to see the king had not stirred. The mere fact that he was remotely contemplating a course of action that could be construed as disloyal disturbed him. To have Eomer overhear...

Lothiriel was talking, and he snapped his attention back to her. "Eowyn will not stand idly by for long. If we do not return, she is sure to take matters into her own hands and deal with Ceorl herself. It is true that she will assume the worse of any delay, and if it were possible I would spare her that. However she made it quite clear that she would sacrifice Eomer to save Rohan. Therefore we lose little by going to the holding, but we risk much if we do not."

"Let me be sure I understand," Elfhelm said, his brain spinning at the princess's logic. "You are saying that whether Eomer is free or not, sooner or later Eowyn will do whatever is necessary to keep the kingdom from falling into Ceorl's hands."

"Exactly," Lothiriel said.

"Why are we still debating this?" Erika said. "Have you not understood my words? The king will not make it to Edoras in his current state. We must take him to the holding. Even there I cannot guarantee he will survive."

Elfhelm stared at her, horrified by the additional information. "Eomer cannot die."

Erika did not meet his gaze. "I may not be able to prevent it."

"He cannot die," Elfhelm repeated as though saying the words would make it true.

"Then please, let me do what I can to save him."

Was it so very wrong to defy a direct order of the king if doing so might save his life? Would such an act be judged as treason? But would he not actually be oath-breaking if he did not do all in his power to keep Eomer alive? He was damned if he did, damned if he didn't. He drew in a deep breath and made his decision.

"Very well, we'll take him to the holding."


	15. A ride in the woods

_A/N: Once again, grateful thanks to everyone who's taken the trouble to review this story and encourage me to continue. Apologies for the delay in posting. I had friends visiting and so spent a lovely few days off work so I could chill out with them. Now, though, it's back to every day life, and back to the story..._

**Chapter 15 – A ride in the woods**

"I have decided that you will appoint me First Marshall and give me command of your eored," Ceorl said as he helped himself to food from Eowyn's breakfast tray. Odd how he was always so hungry after a night with a woman. He bit into a piece of crusty bread as he waited for her reaction. First she pulled her robe tighter around her shoulders. Then she tilted her chin. So, this was how it was to be this morning. Still defiant after all he had done.

"It is not my eored, it is Eomer's, and I will do not such thing," she said, meeting his gaze with the cold fire of her blue eyes.

He chewed, swallowed and then sighed heavily. With a light step, he moved to the fire and paused in front of it for a long moment. It was a shame that he could not conjure up a beating for Eomer at will. Clearly he needed to speak with his mother and arrange a second lesson for Eowyn to witness. Her memory of the first had apparently grown dim. In the meantime he would pretend charity. "It is most fortunate for your brother that I am in a good mood this morning." He smiled at her, and then lifted the smoke-blackened kettle from its hook. "Shall I make tea for you?"

There was relief on her face as he moved back to the tray and poured hot water into the teapot. He knew she would be waiting for him to repeat his demand, and so he changed the subject. Keep her off balance. "Did you sleep well?" His smile widened when she didn't reply. "No? I did. I slept very well. Your new maid is most... accommodating."

"Your spy, you mean." Eowyn glared at him.

"Does she not serve you well?" He scratched his crotch, remembering the previous evening. Seducing one of the many young widows now sheltering in Edoras had been a good idea. Putting her in the place of the old harridan that was Eowyn's long-serving maid was an even better one. "She serves me very well. In many ways."

"Spare me the sordid details of where you spend your nights. As long as it is not in my bed, I do not care."

In two strides he was across the room and leaning over her, his hands on the arms of her chair, trapping her so he could place his face mere inches from hers. "Your time will come, Eowyn." He tilted forward, kissed her hard on the mouth, and then spun away. "But not yet. I would save that singular pleasure for when a crown sits upon my head." He picked up an apple and took a large bite. "Now, let us return to the subject of _my_ eored."

She glared at him. "Even if I were to command it, they will not accept you as Marshall. Eothain has served with my brother for many years. They will answer only to him."

"Then you must persuade them otherwise," he replied casually. "Get dressed. I have something I want to show you in the Golden Hall." He took another bite of the apple, and then threw the remainder into the fire. The flames hissed as they consumed the sweet fruit.

Eowyn knew his action was a warning that she was pushing him too hard, that sooner or later he would once again strike out at Eomer. The thought made her feel sick. Her life grew more difficult with each passing day what with rumours that she was half-mad with grief, a spy as a maid and a constant watch over her door under the pretence that she needed protection. Ceorl was like a spider, wrapping her slowly in threads until she could barely breathe.

She got to her feet and moved behind the screen to change out of her nightwear. A brown woollen dress had already been put out for her. Ceorl's choice laid out by the maid he had appointed for her. She pulled it over her head, telling herself it did not matter what she wore. Appointing him First Marshall, however, that was something she would not do. Damnation. She had promised herself she would give Elfhelm a couple more days. Suddenly she realised that was a luxury she might no longer have.

She stepped from behind the screen, catching her hair back with a green ribbon as she did so. Her gaze fell on the dagger Ceorl wore at his waist. She could end it right here. Snatch the blade and plunge it into his flesh.

A smile twisted Ceorl's lips as he followed her gaze. "Let me guess what dark thought brings a frown to your pretty face," he said. He slid the dagger from its sheath and held it out to her. "Go ahead. Take it."

Her fingers itched to feel the smooth hilt in the palm of her hand. To feel his blood gushing over her skin - warm and sticky.

"Just remember," he went on. "You won't be thrusting the blade into me alone. You'll be doing it to your brother too. Except where you will want to be sure the first strike kills, his death will be made as lingering and painful as possible."

She shuddered. The image of Eomer being held by two men while a third punched and beat him flooded sharply back, and with it came the knowledge that such men were no doubt capable of far worse. Reluctantly she dragged her gaze from the dagger and moved silently towards the door. Just a couple more days, she promised herself.

He led her through the Golden Hall and then up the stairs to the minstrel gallery that ran across the width of the hall, high above the raised dais on which sat the throne. "Is this not a wonderful view?" he said, gesturing over the balcony to the open expanse of the hall. "One can see everything from up here."

"Fascinating I'm sure," she snapped.

"Do you know what else I've discovered?"

"I have no idea."

"Let me show you." He clapped his hands together. Down in the hall, two men appeared with carrying straw bales, which they distributed at various points on the floor.

"Are you planning on turning the Golden Hall into a barn?" Eowyn asked. However, her sarcasm died as two men in blue liveries stepped into the gallery. She glared at them as they bowed to her.

"Pray tell me who are you and what is this uniform you wear?"

"We belong to Lord Ceorl's personal guard, my lady."

"Personal guard?" she spluttered, turning to Ceorl. "Since when have you had a personal guard?"

His smile was oily. "Since you signed the order granting me permission to set one up."

"What?"

He pulled a piece of parchment from his tunic. "Do you not remember, my lady?"

Eowyn stared in disbelief at the signature at the bottom of the parchment. "You dare to forge my signature?"

"I dare a great deal," he replied smugly. "As this demonstration will reveal." He caught her by the arm, and pulled her towards the balcony. "Watch."

Horrified she realised the two men both carried bows. Expertly they set arrows against the strings and then in a display of rapid shooting, they fired down at the straw bales until each one was impaled with a mass of arrows.

"Imagine if those bales were men," Ceorl said. "Men of your brother's eored, for example."

"You wouldn't dare," Eowyn said. "You would murder them in cold-blood?"

"I would not need to if they were to swear oaths of loyalty to me," he replied. His smile widened. "As I said before, you will appoint me First Marshall and give me command of your brother's eored. If you do not, well, these two men are not the only ones in my... personal guard."

No. This could not be. With a personal guard at his command and an eored sworn to loyalty, there would be no one in Edoras who would move against him. Other than herself.

With a cry of outrage, she spun away. Act. She had to act now. Her gaze fixed on the sword hanging at the hip of one of the two guards and she didn't hesitate. Her right hand closed around the hilt and with one smooth pull, it came free of its sheath. One last thought flashed through her mind as she balanced the blade in her hand and simultaneously elbowed the nearest guard hard in the stomach. He dropped to his knees with a grunt and she slammed the hilt of his sword down on the back of his neck. Bone cracked and he fell lifeless to the floor. The second guard was behind Ceorl, staring at her in horror, an empty bow in his hand and fear on his face. No threat, she realised immediately. Her gaze shifted to Ceorl and her hatred for him washed over her.

_Eomer, forgive me! _

She lunged forward. With a yell, Ceorl threw himself desperately to one side. She felt the sword bite into flesh. Saw blood on the blue-grey metal as she pulled the blade free and readied herself for a second strike. And then she was struck from behind.

Pain exploded in the back of her head. The sword fell from her hand, and she dropped to her knees. She couldn't think. Couldn't see. Could barely breathe.

She realised someone was cursing her, and was horrified when she recognised it was Ceorl. He wasn't dead. Damn him. Why wasn't he dead? She forced her head up, blinked away tears of pain, and saw he was leaning against the wall, clutching his upper arm. She'd failed. Failed.

He pushed himself upright, and stood over her, a sneering smile on his face. "I warned you I had more than two guards." He addressed someone behind her. "Get that body out here."

She turned her head, wincing at the pain, and saw yet another blue liveried guard. The man refused to meet her gaze as he began to drag his dead companion towards the door.

"What about her?" the other guard said, finally finding his voice.

Ceorl's smile turned cruel. He grabbed her chin, forcing her to look up at him. "I think her Majesty is about to suffer a fainting fit. The stress of her brother's loss has clearly taken a much worse toll than we imagined."

Eowyn flinched as she saw him draw back his arm. Even though she tried to prepare for it, the blow sent her sprawling to the floor. Unconsciousness seized her.

--------------------

Cold. So very cold. Eomer tried to still his trembling limbs. Tried to remember where he was. There was warmth against his back, and a strong arm around his waist. The air was damp against his skin and filled with the musky aroma of leaves and wood. He could smell horses too, and leather and the sharp tang of his own sweat.

Horses? He focused in on that, welcoming the familiarity. Now he was aware of the steady rhythmic motion of his body. He was on a saddle, but not alone. A face drifted into his memory. She was beautiful, so very beautiful. Dark wavy hair. Soft, full lips that begged to be kissed. Long-lashed eyes that were filled with concern whenever she looked at him. She'd been riding in front of him. Unwittingly distracting him from his pain and misery with the scent of her hair and the press of her body against his.

Forcing his eyes open, he stared in confusion at the arm around his waist. Muscles rippled beneath tanned skin that was dusted with coarse grey hair. A heavy leather glove covered a hand that was far from feminine. Had she just been a dream? The thought sent an unexpected wave of loss through him. Then it was gone. Full consciousness returned – sharp and painful.

"Eomer? Fare you well?" A familiar voice growled his name, and the arm around his waist relaxed slightly. He raised his head and discovered himself looking at world shrouded in mist.

"Elfhelm?"

"Aye, my lord. It is good to see you wake."

He remembered now. They were riding for Edoras. But why was he now sharing a saddle with Elfhelm? He turned his head, caught a glimpse of the other horse and its two slender riders. The answer to his question was like a blow. Of course. Only Elfhelm was strong enough to hold him in a saddle. He silently cursed Galwyn and her poison. Was this how Théoden had felt as Wormtongue stole the strength from him? Weak. Powerless. Barely able to summon up the energy to form a coherent thought.

He felt Elfhelm shift behind him. The arm around his waist moved, and then reappeared, holding a water skin.

"Drink," Elfhelm commanded.

Obediently he took the skin, but to his dismay found himself struggling to remove the stopper. Elfhelm reached for, but he shook his head, paying for the action with a painful display of internal fireworks. "I can do it," he snapped. A bead of sweat ran down his forehead and he dashed it away before tugging at the stopper. Suddenly it came free, jerking his hand as it did so. His fingers slipped on the smooth leather and the skin slipped from his grasp, sloshing water down his leg as it fell to the ground.

Elfhelm swore and pulled the horse to a halt.

"I'll get it," Lothiriel said, drawing the horse to a stop next to them. She dropped lightly to the ground and scooped up the skin.

"Thank you." His hand was shaking as he reached for it, and he couldn't bring himself to meet her gaze. He knew what he would see. Concern masked by sympathy, and a total absence of confidence in his ability to care for himself. He tipped the skin to his lips, aware that it required an absurd amount of concentration not to spill any more. The water was icy and he felt it travel through his body. He was shivering again. His confused nerves telling his brain he was cold when actually he was burning with fever. He saw Lothiriel look at Elfhelm, her face worried, and then suddenly she turned away.

"Did you hear that?" she hissed.

"Aye," Elfhelm replied

Eomer peered into the mist, and then he caught the distinctive sound of horses' hooves. Who ever it was, they were close. Very close. His hand dropped to the hilt of his sword.

"Nay, lad. You are in no fit state for a fight," Elfhelm whispered in his ear.

Lad? It had been a long time since Elfhelm had called him that, and was yet more proof of how his companions currently viewed him. Frustration burned in his stomach, but he didn't let it show. Elfhelm was right. If he couldn't handle a water skin without making a fool of himself, he was not to going to have much success with a sword. "What do you propose?" he asked quietly.

"I will lead them away. You stay here. Protect the women."

"I think we both know they are currently more capable of acting as protectors," he replied. "But I thank you for attempting to soothe my pride."

Elfhelm swung down from the saddle and then helped him do the same. Standing proved to be an interesting challenge as his legs had apparently forgotten that their primary purpose was to keep him upright. Erika swiftly slid under his right shoulder, taking his weight across her own. She jerked her head towards a tangle of broad-leaved shrubs. Eomer's frustration notched higher at the prospect of hiding from his enemies. It seemed more cowardly than prudent, despite the fact he could barely stand.

"Go," Elfhelm hissed.

Eomer glanced back and realised Elfhelm was talking not to him, but to Lothiriel. She shook her head and swung back onto her horse. "I'm coming with you."

"No you're not."

"They are seeking two horses," she hissed. "If you go alone they may guess it is a ruse.

Elfhelm glanced at Eomer and then shook his head, keeping his voice low, so that only Eomer could hear his words. "This woman is as hot-headed as you and three times as stubborn." He thrust a foot into a stirrup, pulled himself into the saddle and then urged his horse into a trot, deliberately making as much noise as possible as he rode away. Lothiriel glanced at Eomer, her expression indecipherable. The aching loss of his dream world bit at him again, and he wanted to tell her to stay, not to risk her life further on his account, but with the pursuers near by conversation was dangerous, and before he could speak she too kicked her horse into action. The mist swallowed her before her mount had barely gone ten strides.

"Curse this weakness," Eomer murmured, as he lay on his belly beneath the thick foliage. The few paces he had walked had completely drained him. He felt Erika's hand against his forehead and he was dimly aware that she was saying something. The words refused to make sense, though. There was a buzzing in his ears, and the mist seemed to be closing in on him. He turned his head and pressed his cheek against the cool, damp earth. Tendrils of soft, white cloud swirled around him, calling him to let go of the aches and pains of his body, to close his eyes and rest. Just for a few moments. Just while they were waiting...

Erika watched in dismay as the king passed out again. He had not awoken when they'd hauled him onto the horse early that morning, and she had feared then that the poison had all but done its job. When he stirred and spoke Elfhelm's name, she had been amazed that he'd regained consciousness, and even more so that he had found the strength to hold a conversation and walk to a hiding place. The fever that burned him was fierce and might already have taken a weaker man. If he woke again it would be a miracle.

His sword was clutched in his hand, the blade glistening with condensation as it rested against the earth. Gently she uncurled his fingers from its hilt and felt the weight of the blade for herself. It was a heavy sword, probably too heavy for her to swing even if she had known how to handle such a weapon. However, if Selred discovered them she would do what she could to protect the king with it. The memory of her first encounter with Selred made her feel nauseous. She had always known he was a violent man, but she had never truly understood how evil he was. Hopefully, though, Elfhelm would do as he had promised. He would draw their pursuers away. He would keep her safe. Please, let it be so.

Yes, that was a more pleasant thought. Thinking of the Marshall steadied her nerves, making it easier for her to accept that she was hiding under a bush with a desperately ill man for whom she could do nothing. Elfhelm was a good man. Strong. Loyal. Caring. It had been a long time since she'd suffered from a case of hero worship, but ever since Elfhelm had saved her from Selred, she'd found herself watching him, learning to read him, looking beneath the gruff surface that he presented to the gentle man hidden beneath. She'd liked what she'd found, and had even begun to compare him favourably to the few young men of the village that were yet to wed. Now she laughed silently at herself. What foolish thoughts. He was old enough to be her father, and it would take a blind woman to call him handsome. Yet still she could not deny that the thought of his return was like a light shining in the dark as she cowered beneath the foliage and prayed that Selred would not find them and that the king would live long enough to reach the holding.

----------------------

When Lothiriel was growing up, her brothers would sometimes let her join in their game of horse-mounted tag. Being the youngest and a girl, they naturally saw her as an easy target, and most of the time they were right. Hours of futilely chasing them through the woods had, however, made her a far more competent rider than lessons alone would ever have achieved. Now, as she trotted through the trees with Elfhelm, she tried to tell herself this was just another game. One in which, unusually, she was the quarry.

Her pulse quickened as he raised a hand and pointed between the trees. She squinted into the mist, seeing nothing at first, and then catching sight of a shadowy figure of a horse and rider. "There are at least four," Elfhelm hissed. "Maybe more."

Her breath caught in her throat, and she had to take a moment to calm herself. This was no game. These men were armed and seeking blood. They would not hesitate to kill her, Elfhelm and Erika in order to take Eomer prisoner once again. The skills she had learnt as a young girl were now all that would keep her alive, and for a moment she regretted her impulsive decision to join Elfhelm.

"There. To your left!" a voice shouted.

Abruptly it was too late to reconsider her actions. Touching her heels to her horse, she followed Elfhelm as he led the way in the dangerous game of cat and mouse. They twisted first to the right, and then to the left, heading deeper into the wood. Now they'd been seen, their pursuers made no attempt to hide their presence, instead they shouted and hollered to each other, encouraging one another to ride faster.

She saw Elfhelm look to his right and heard him swear. Her gaze followed his, and she muttered a curse of her own. Two riders were flanking them, close enough that she could see their unsheathed swords. Elfhelm veered sharply left, drawing his own sword as he did so. She reined her horses sharply in the same direction, wishing that her father had allowed her to train with weapons, rather than fussing over her ability with a needle and thread. Then again, she had enough to concern her right now without attempting to hold a sword too. Bent low in the saddle, she hissed as she narrowly avoided a low branch that Elfhelm had curled under with deceptive ease. He was easily twice her age, but he was clearly a lot suppler than he looked. She straightened up again and saw they'd reached what appeared to be a natural avenue in the trees. There was no telling how far it stretched, though. The mist limited their visibility to little more than a few strides.

Elfhelm glanced back at her, his face grim. She knew why. The two riders were still keeping pace with them, and were no doubt looking for a break in the trees in order to cut them off. "Give him his head," Elfhelm called, and then he turned away, his heels nudging his horse into a canter and then a gallop.

Her horse needed no prompting. It simply followed suit, charging after Elfhelm's mount with a powerful surge of raw equine energy. Fear grabbed at her. She was riding blind at a full gallop, and she wasn't at all sure her horse would respond if she tried to pull him up. Leaves flew into her face. Dirt splattered her skirt, kicked up by the hooves of Elfhelm's horse.

"Tree!" Elfhelm suddenly shouted.

Tree? They were in a wood. What a ridiculous thing to... Her mount suddenly changed his rhythm, bunching his legs together. Horrified she saw a large fallen trunk was lying directly across her path. A swearword that would've shocked her brothers slid easily from her lips. And then she was desperately trying to regain her seat as her horse cleared the obstacle and galloped on.

"Left!" Elfhelm shouted as he reined sharply to the right.

Still off-balance, she barely had chance to register he had shouted the opposite of his action in order to confuse their pursuers before her horse turned. Grabbing hold of a handful of mane, she pushed herself back with all her strength, and was relieved to finally find herself properly seated again. The trees were thicker here, and Elfhelm reined his horse back to a fast trot.

Gasping for breath, Lothiriel yanked on the reins and was offered up a silent prayer of thanks when her horse obediently dropped out of canter. It wasn't over yet, though. Elfhelm gestured urgently to her right, indicating that she should go ahead of him. "That way?" she asked.

"Now," he replied tersely.

Leading the way proved even more difficult than following. She ducked low in the saddle again, but not before a thin branch whipped across her face, stinging her cheek. It seemed like an eternity before Elfhelm softly called to her to walk. Moments later they halted. Elfhelm pressed a finger to his lips. Obediently she kept silent.

Around them the trees rustled softly. An insect chirruped happily to itself, but there was no birdsong, the thick mist apparently discouraging the usual symphony. Then, from a distance, came the sound of Rohirric voices - unhappy Rohirric voices. Elfhelm smiled coldly. "They've lost us," he said, keeping his voice low. He put his finger to his lips again. Gradually the voices faded away, until once again there was nothing but the gentle whispering of the trees and the sound of the horses breathing.

"They're gone," Elfhelm said with quiet satisfaction. "This way." He turned his horse to the right, and then glanced at her with grudging admiration. "You ride well..."

"Thank you," she replied, making a silent vow not to volunteer for anything ever again.

"For a Gondorian," he added.

She opened her mouth to snarl a retort, and then saw the look on his face. Elfhelm, Marshall of the Mark, was teasing her. She bowed her head in acceptance of the compliment and to hide her smile. The light-hearted moment was just what she needed to settle her nerves. With a deep breath, she turned her horse's head to follow him. Eomer and Erika were waiting, and there was no humour to be found in the king's condition.


	16. Desperate times

**Chapter 16 – Desperate times**

Eowyn's head was throbbing, both from the aftermath of Ceorl's blow and from the task that lay ahead of her. As he'd escorted her into the Golden Hall, he had pretended to be solicitous of her, informing any who asked about the bruise on her cheek that she had fainted and struck her face on a table. The presence of two blue liveried guards ensured she did not contradict him. He'd threatened to kill anyone who got in his way, and she did not doubt he would.

Now one hundred and fifty men were staring at her, waiting for her to speak. Seated on the throne in the Golden Hall, she looked out at them. So many young faces. Some barely more than boys. She had frequently heard Eomer lament over the loss of his comrade-in-arms, many of whom had been his friends as well as fellow warriors, but only now did she truly appreciate the scale of the devastation. She knew, too, that it was with some reluctance that her brother had restored his eored to its full number since the war, handpicking youngsters that he believed had the character and physical ability to serve both Rohan and her king. "Would that they could grow into young men free of the threat of death and injury," he would complain as yet another lad swore the oath of loyalty and took up a sword. Now their lives were in her hands. She shivered at the thought of the archers hidden in the shadows above her head.

"Your Majesty." Eothain stepped forward and bowed to her. "How can we serve you?"

She studied his weather-beaten face, and saw in the hardness of his eyes that it pained him to see her sitting on the throne in Eomer's place. If only he knew the truth. Eothain had always been something of a father figure to the eored. Totally loyal to Eomer, he had been completely supportive of Rohan's youngest Marshall, never challenging him to his face, but not afraid to quietly offer advice and even correction in private. When Eomer became king it was apparent to all that while the eored would remain his command in name, the every day running of it would fall on Eothain's shoulders.

And now, she was going to reward the man's loyalty and long service with a slap in the face.

"It has come to my attention that the eorod needs a new Marshall to command it." She held Eothain's gaze. "I am grateful to you for all you have done, Master Eothain. For your loyalty and your service. I know my brother counted you amongst his closest friends." She took a deep breath, the words she had to speak almost choking her. "I hope you will assist the new Marshall as ably as you assisted Eomer."

"Of course," Eothain said tightly, his eyes narrowing as comprehension of her intent began to show on his face.

"It is a new age for Rohan. A time when much is being asked of our young men. It is therefore only fitting that you, the Queen's own eored, should be led by one who may not have seen as many summers as some, but who has a great deal of... hidden talent. I therefore appoint Ceorl..." May the gods curse him for his manipulative ways. "...as First Marshall of the Mark."

Eothain sucked in an audible breath at her words. His eyes flashed with dangerous anger and his lips thinned into a tight line as Ceorl stepped forward and bowed to Eowyn.

"You do me a great honour, your Majesty," Ceorl said.

She schooled her face into neutrality as she met his gaze. Oh to wipe that smug smile off his face. To really hurt him. The only sign of the injury she'd inflicted on him was the slight hint of a bulge beneath his sleeve where a bandage was wrapped around his upper arm. If only she had pierced his heart.

She looked away, shifting her gaze to Eothain. She had been afraid that he would protest the appointment, but she realised now that he was too proud and too loyal. And where Eothain led, the eored would follow. Her only hope in this nightmare situation was that Ceorl would be Marshall in name only and that if she needed the men, she would need only to turn to Eothain and they would once more be hers to command. A queen's command still counted for more than that of a Marshall, and once Eothain knew the truth...

"Your Majesty!" A young rider she did not recognise stepped forward. "If I may be so bold as to speak."

Eothain's gruff voice rang out before she could reply. "No, lad. You may not. You heard the Queen's command."

The rider glanced at Eothain, and then turned back to Eowyn, his face determined. "Your Majesty, Eothain should command the eored. It is what we all expected. What we all want."

A dozen men gasped at the rider's audacity, but Eowyn's sharp hearing also picked up a few murmured comments of agreement. Ceorl stepped forward, his face thunderous. "You dare question the Queen's authority?"

The rider paled, but then found his courage. "I am ever loyal to Rohan and her Queen. But this decision is poorly made." He jumped as Eothain's hand dropped heavily onto his shoulder.

Eothain bowed curtly to Eowyn. "Forgive, Edric, your majesty. He means well, but he has much to learn." He yanked the young boy backwards and pushed him into middle of the eored. "Take your place, boy." He then turned to Ceorl and gave a quick bow. "My congratulations on your appointment, First Marshall of the Mark. It will be an honour to serve under you."

"Thank you," Ceorl replied, tearing his furious gaze from Edric in order to give Eothain the attention his words demanded. "Tonight we will celebrate. A feast for you all as a mark of my respect." He turned and caught Eowyn's arm. "My lady, you still look pale. Allow me to escort you to your quarters. I would not have you fainting again."

Her skin recoiled at his touch, but the presence of the blue-liveried men in the shadows of the minstrel gallery made her force a smile. Inside though, her heart was breaking at the shattered look on Eothain's face as she allowed herself to be led from the room.

--------------------

It was almost midday when Lothiriel, with Erika sitting behind her, led the way into the yard of the holding. Her gaze scanned the small collection of buildings for signs of life. There was a thatched barn. A stable. A pig pen. The main house had the typical Rohirric horse-head roof decoration. Chickens scattered in front of her horse, squawking indignantly at being disturbed from their worm hunting. Near the door of the house, a dog appeared from a kennel and started barking at them. "Nobody home?" she murmured.

Erika swung down from the saddle, landing softly on the dusty ground. "Breda?" she called, striding towards the house. "Breda? It's me, Erika."

A young woman, heavy with child, stepped through the doorway, shading her eyes against the light. Two small children clung to her skirts, twins by the look of them. A third older child peered out from the doorway. "Erika? By the gods, it is indeed you. Welcome." Her gaze slid past Erika to Lothiriel and then to Elfhelm and Eomer. "Your companion is injured?"

Lothiriel glanced at the king. He had stirred only twice throughout the morning, and on neither occasion had he truly been conscious. Once he had mumbled something incomprehensible about his sister, lapsing once again into oblivion when Elfhelm soothed him with false words about their destination. The second time he had seemed totally unaware of his surroundings, murmuring about orcs and black gates. It all but broke her heart to see him so confused and vulnerable.

Erika also glanced at the king, and then turned back to Breda. "He is very sick. I would trouble you for a bed, access to whatever medicines you have and..." She grasped Breda's hand. "Your silence if anyone comes seeking us."

Breda pulled her hand free, resting it protectively on her belly. "You would bring sickness and trouble to my home?"

Surely the woman wouldn't turn them away? Dismayed Lothiriel dismounted, determined to promise money or whatever else the woman wanted in order to let them stay. Eomer's condition frightened her. The thought of being denied the sanctuary that they so desperately needed was more than she could bear.

Erika, however, was already pleading their case. "If there was any other choice, Breda, we would have taken it. But you need not fear that what ails him will touch you or your children - both born and unborn."

Lothiriel saw the woman glance at Eomer again, and then to her relief the hostility was replaced with a look of compassion. Next, though, Breda's attention moved once more to Elfhelm, her gaze assessing his clothes and bearing.

"A Marshall of the Mark? Or am I mistaken?"

"My name is Elfhelm," he said, neither confirming or denying her suspicions.

"And your companion?"

"Is in dire need of aid," Elfhelm replied gruffly.

Breda hesitated a moment longer, then inclined her head in acceptance. "You had better bring him inside then." She beckoned to the child in the doorway. "Anlafsson, there are horses to tend. Quickly now."

"Where is your husband?" Erika asked, as the boy darted past her to take the reins from Lothiriel.

"Anlaf has gone west to make trade," Breda said, shooing the younger children back towards the house. "We need cloth and other supplies to get through the winter, especially with another young one on the way. It will be another three nights before I expect to hear his cart in the yard again."

Lothiriel moved to help Elfhelm with the king as best she could. Tall and well-built, Eomer was no light weight to manoeuvre from a saddle.

"Unbuckle his sword," Elfhelm said as he tipped Eomer forward so he was resting against the neck of the horse. "I will carry him across my shoulders."

"Are you sure?" Lothiriel asked. She could feel the heat radiating off Eomer's body as she removed the leather belt that held his sword and sheath to his side.

"It is either that or drag him into the house between us. Neither option is exactly dignified, but I think he would prefer the former to the latter." Elfhelm dismounted and then positioned himself with his back to the horse. Grasping hold of Eomer's right arm, he pulled the king from the saddle, squatting as he took the weight. He was red-faced and breathing heavily when he finally straightened up, the king held securely across his back. "You would think he'd be light after days with no food," he muttered, gritting his teeth as he headed for the house.

Lothiriel followed him, ducking her head as she stepped through the low doorway. It was dark and cool inside. The interior was divided into three - a main area filled with the usual furniture and equipment needed for daily living, a long, narrow storage area, above which was a sleeping platform, and a single bedroom. The latter was a tiny room that was all but filled by the wooden framed bed and its horsehair mattress. Elfhelm deposited Eomer on the bed as gently as possible, and then hurried away muttering about helping the boy with the horses. Breda stood in the doorway of the tiny room, her children buried in her skirts.

"How is he?" Lothiriel asked as Erika placed one hand against Eomer's forehead and frowned. She brushed her own fingers against his cheek, once again feeling the heat of his skin. There was no need for Erika to answer her question. The fever was severe.

"If only I knew what Galwyn had given him," Erika said. "Then there might be a chance." She turned to Breda. "What medicines do you have?"

The woman fetched a small wooden chest, which she handed to Erika. "There is blue balm for headaches, bog myrtle for stomach complaints, black birch to treat worms, nightshade for bruises, and coltsfoot for coughs." She looked anxiously at Eomer's pale face. "Feverfew grows freely nearby. I could send Anlafsson..."

"Do you have red ink berries?" Erika interrupted.

Clearly alarmed by the request, Breda's gaze shifted back to Erika. "What ails him that you would need so violent a herb?"

"He has been poisoned, but I have no knowledge of the plants that were used."

Breda's eyes widened. "This poison was given to him intentionally?"

"Red ink berries?" Lothiriel asked, before Erika had chance to answer the question. She brushed a strand of hair from Eomer's forehead. The horror on Breda's face was a sharp reflection of her own revulsion at the harm inflicted upon him, but right now she was more interested in helping him than explaining the story behind the poisoning.

Breda's face set into a mask of disapproval as she answered Lothiriel's question. "She would use one poison to fight another. It is a dangerous treatment. One he does not look strong enough to survive."

"Erika?" Lothiriel was horrified at the prospect.

Erika refused to meet her gaze. "I know of no other answer."


	17. Fever and feelings

_A/N: Thank you once again for your reviews. Glad to know folks are still reading and enjoying._

**Chapter 17 - Fever and feelings**

Lothiriel gazed down at Eomer, fighting back tears of frustration. It just wasn't fair. He did not deserve to suffer so. Even though he was unconscious, it was clear his body was wracked with pain. The tension of his jawline and his furrowed brow were proof enough. Then there was the fever. Sweat was beaded on his face and his clothes were damp to the touch, but he was shivering as though cold. Surely there had to be another way to aid him rather than adding yet more poison to that which already sought to destroy him. She reached out again, wishing she could soothe his hurt with a touch like her elven ancestors, and wanting him to know that he was not alone. To her surprise, as she brushed the palm of her hand against his cheek, he turned his face towards her, leaning in to her gentle caress. His lips moved, but the words were in his own tongue.

"What did he say?" she asked Erika.

"It was nothing but feverish babbling," she replied tersely, returning to her questioning of Breda about the possible location of a red ink bush.

"Shush," Lothiriel said softly to Eomer. "Everything will be all right. I promise." The words spilled off her tongue. Meaningless. Hollow. How could she promise him anything? Sudden anger raced through her. Damn Galwyn and her cruelty. How could she do this to a man that had done nothing but dedicate his life to his country? A man who had fought to bring freedom to others at great cost to himself. A man who would have humbly taken on the burden of serving his people as king until... Grief suddenly choked her. Until the day he died.

She had to do something. There had to be an alternative to poisoning him afresh. Perhaps if she returned to Galwyn's cottage there would be some clue. Would the herbs that she'd used to concoct her evil not be there still? If she could just have a few minutes to search the shelves with their jars and pots and...

"Beetles!" she said.

"What?" Erika shot her an impatient look.

"There was a pot of dead beetles on one of the shelves in Galwyn's cottage." She felt breathless, as though she had just been running. Erika was staring at her blankly. "One of my brothers once told me of a poison made by crushing the bodies of a certain type of beetle. The Haradim use it to tip their arrows when hunting." Without thinking she reached out and grasped one of Eomer's hands in her own. "Don't you see? That could be what Galwyn used to poison him."

Erika frowned. "And what if it is not?"

"Is it not better to treat him for something that might have been used against him than to blindly force another poison into him?"

"You know the treatment for this beetle poison?" Erika asked.

Lothiriel's spirits fell. "No," she said softly.

"I think I do." Elfhelm's voice sounded from the main room. "I have heard stories of Haradrim spies and assassins who use such a poison. Were these beetles the size of a man's thumbnail with dark red backs?"

"Yes. Each with a black spot at head and tail." Lothiriel's hopes rose again. "Please say they are the same."

"Aye. Sounds like it to me," Elfhelm replied. "It is an evil poison indeed. Given in small regular amounts it causes naught but minor discomfort. It is when the body is suddenly denied the poison that its real power is revealed." He turned to Lothiriel. "I did not think of it before because I believed it merely a myth of the Haradrim spoken of around camp fires when too much ale has been drunk. However, now I believe it is the very poison you speculated about earlier."

Erika was horrified. "That does indeed explain why the king became unwell so quickly after escaping from Galwyn's clutches. But what is the cure? Please do not say that the king needs is more of this poison in order to survive."

"To slowly wean the body from it is one cure, aye. But there is another. Goldenseal. It is said to work for many a poison, but I have no idea what it looks like in the wild."

"Goldenseal. Of course." Erika's face was suddenly animated.

"You've heard of it?"

For the first time in days, she smiled. "Better than that. I know where we can find some."

"Thank the gods," Lothiriel said. She gripped Eomer's hand tighter, as though somehow she could communicate the good news to him. Suddenly she realised what she was doing. Realised, too, that her behaviour was entirely inappropriate in front of the woman who had a claim to the king's heart. "Forgive me," she said, releasing her hold and gently resting his arm on the mattress.

Erika gave her a puzzled look. "I would not be thanking the gods just yet. It will take half a day on horseback to go and then return. I do not know if he is strong enough to fight the fever that long." Her face brightened once again. "Breda, you have a well, yes?"

"Behind the house, yes. Good, clean water is one thing we have plenty of."

"Good clean _cold_ water," Erika said. "We may save him yet. Elfhelm, can you carry him out to the well?"

"Aye."

"Give us ten minutes, and then bring him.' Erika moved out of the way to give Elfhelm access to the bed. "Breda, we'll need an animal trough. Do you have one spare?"

Puzzled, Lothiriel watched as Breda nodded and hurried outside. "What are you planning?" she asked Erika, as she followed the young woman out into the daylight.

"Desperate situations require desperate solutions," Erika replied. "While I seek the Goldenseal, you must keep him cool." She hurried towards the barn to help Breda and Anlafsson, who were now dragging a large metal trough into the yard. "Bring a bale of straw," she said the boy, gripping one of the handles that were at either end of the trough.

Still puzzled, Lothiriel went to help. "Let me," she said to Breda, taking the handle at the other end. "We don't want to be delivering your babe as well as everything else."

Breda smiled and gratefully straightened up. "Indeed not, I promised Anlaf that I would not bring this child into the world before he returned.

Minutes later they were clustered around the well. Using Lothiriel's knife, Erika cut the binding from the straw and began to pile it into one end of the trough. Suddenly Lothiriel caught on. "A cold water bath?" she said. "You hope to quench his fever that way?"

Erika nodded, and then straightened up as Elfhelm approached with Eomer once again on his shoulders. "Put him in the trough."

Elfhelm's expression darkened, but he did as he was told. Now that she understood, Lothiriel helped to adjust the straw behind the king. "Are you sure this will keep his head up?"

"No," Erika replied. "But this will."

Lothiriel gasped as Erika took her knife once again and cut Eomer's shirt from him. Twisting the material into a narrow strip, Erika then looped it around his chest and under his arms before tying the ends securely to the metal handle behind him. It was a crude but efficient way of keeping an unconscious man in place. Apparently, however, Elfhelm did not approve. He paced away from the scene, swearing colourfully.

"Would you prefer that I let him drown?" Erika demanded, moving to the well.

"It is not your treatment of him I am objecting to," Elfhelm snapped. "Unless I am very much mistaken those bruises were caused by fists."

Puzzled Lothiriel stepped forward, and then sucked in a sharp breath as she saw the swirls of purple and yellow marring Eomer's torso.

"He was beaten by Galwyn's men," Erika said, pulling up a bucket of water. "And before that he was thrown from his horse. Did you think he broke his arm tripping over a stone?"

Elfhelm glared at her. "What I think..." he began, his voice tight. "Is that I would like to run my sword through the people responsible for hurting him."

"A most noble sentiment," she replied calmly. "But right now it would be more helpful if you could draw water so we can prevent this fever from claiming his life." She handed the full bucket to Lothiriel and thrust a second empty one at Elfhelm. Scowling, Elfhelm turned to the well.

"Tip the water over his head and shoulders," Erika commanded.

Lothiriel dipped her fingers into the water. "It's icy."

"That is the general idea," Erika replied.

It seemed a cruel thing to do even though she knew it was for a good reason. Biting back her reluctance she tipped the bucket and sluiced the water over him. His reaction was immediate. He drew in a sharp breath and tossed his head from side to side, murmuring incoherently. Lothiriel closed her eyes, shutting down her own distress.

"It is necessary," Erika said softly beside her.

She nodded, opened her eyes, and took the second bucket. "Forgive me," she murmured to Eomer as she once again deluged him in icy cold water.

Erika nodded her approval. "You must continue to do this while I seek the Goldenseal."

Elfhelm turned from the well. "You are not going alone."

"Lothiriel needs you here," Erika said.

"You are not going alone," Elfhelm repeated firmly. "It is far too dangerous."

"Elfhelm is right," Lothiriel said. "It will gain us nought if you are captured or killed while seeking this herb."

"And what of you?" Erika replied. "What if Selred tracks us here?"

"Then I will protect Eomer as best I can or die in the attempt. But without the Goldenseal, I will merely be putting off the inevitable."

Erika frowned, and then nodded. "Very well. Let us not delay any longer." She turned and headed towards the stable.

Elfhelm hesitated a moment, his gaze on Eomer's pained face. "We will return as swiftly as we can. May the gods be with him." He gave Lothiriel a short bow and then strode after Erika.

Lothiriel stood for a long moment, looking down at the king. This was not how she had envisioned her first time alone with him. He was feverish. Half-naked. And muttering incoherently to himself as he shivered and sweated in an animal trough. The situation could hardly be less ignoble. Why, then, did her heart twist at the sight of him? And why did the thought of losing him make her ache deep within? Was it simply that he was Eowyn's brother and therefore precious in her sight because of that? Or was it that, through his relationship with Elfhelm, she was beginning to appreciate what a loss he would be to Rohan? Perhaps it was both. After all it couldn't possibly be anything else. She barely knew him. And besides, she didn't believe in love at first sight.

She froze as the thought formed. Now she really was being absurd. Caring for him was fine. Indeed after all they had been through over the past few hours it was to be expected. Love, though. Ha! Perhaps she was the one that was feverish if she was drifting down such a ridiculous line of thought. And besides, she had seen him with Erika. There was absolutely no point in even contemplating the notion. No, she cared for him because he was Rohan's king and Eowyn's brother. Nothing more, nothing less.

That settled in her mind, she took a deep breath, picked up the bucket, and with grim determination returned to the task entrusted to her.

----------------------------

Elfhelm was frightened. Not of Seldred and his men, but of the rush of emotion he had felt when Erika had suggested seeking out herbs on her own. Now, as he watched her riding ahead of him, he tried to convince himself that it was merely concern for his king that had caused the reaction. The only problem was that he had never been much of a liar - to others or to himself. He swore silently. She was surely far too young for him to even be noticing, never mind having feelings towards. He couldn't help it though. He admired her courage, liked the fact that she was intelligent and skilled but bragged of neither trait, and he found it amusing to watch this chit of a girl putting Eomer in his place. Few would dare to even try. Fewer still would actually succeed.

He tried once again to dismiss what he was feeling. It was just a misplaced responsibility because he'd saved her from Selred, he told himself severely. His emotions mocked his logic and made him sigh heavily. So he was attracted to her. Well, what did it matter if he admitted it? Nothing was going to come of it. He was at least twice her age, if not more so. Even if he was foolish enough to let his feelings show, she would not reciprocate them. What young woman would want a grizzled old warrior like him?

Despite himself, though, he could not prevent his mind wandering into an imaginary future where he was no longer alone. It had been eight years since his beloved wife had gone to the halls of their fathers. Eight long years during which he had mourned her loss and slowly come to terms with life without her. He knew she would not begrudge him companionship now. Indeed, she had urged him to take another wife when she realised that the illness wracking her body was not to be defeated. This, however, was the first time he had ever remotely considered the idea. But no, this would not do. Erika was not for the likes of him. She would no doubt meet a handsome young rider in Edoras and be swept off her feet. If that happened, he would be glad for her and would dance at her wedding. As for now - he would see that she was safe from harm.

"Elfhelm. Look!" She turned in the saddle and pointed towards a clump of broad-leaved plants with bright yellow stems.

"Is it Goldenseal?" he asked, his thoughts suddenly focused back on the purpose of their journey.

She was already off her horse. "I believe so."

He didn't dismount, preferring the vantage point of horseback to keep an eye on their surroundings. As she quickly harvested what they needed he silently sent up a prayer to the gods. This had to work. For Eomer.

And for all of Rohan.


	18. Trusting to hope

_A/N: Sorry for the slight delay. The weekend was a bit manic. Many thanks as always to my faithful reviewers. You guys are great. Now on with the action..._

**Chapter 18 - Trusting to hope**

"Did you find it?" Lothiriel asked the moment she saw Elfhelm striding towards her.

"Aye. Erika is preparing some for him now." He stopped at the trough and stared down at the king. "How does he fare?"

"He is delirious still," Lothiriel said, disappointed that she could not report better news. "I'm afraid most of the time I do not know what he says because he speaks in his own tongue. All I recognise is Eowyn's name repeated over and over."

A pained look crossed Elfhelm's face, but he said nothing. "Erika said to bring him inside." He glanced at Lothiriel as he began to untie the material that was holding the king upright. "You look tired."

She couldn't deny it. Tipping bucket after bucket of icy water over Eomer had drained her both physically and emotionally. Her body craved rest, but she knew she would not sleep until they had given Eomer the first dose of Goldenseal. "I am fine," she lied.

His look told her he wasn't convinced, but she pretended not to notice. Pressing her hand to Eomer's forehead she reassured herself once again that he felt cooler, that all her effort had not been in vain. What she didn't know, however, was how long it would last. If the fire still burned deep within he would soon be hot to her touch again. She stood to one side as Elfhelm bent his knees, got a firm grip of the king and then hoisted him like a sack of flour over one shoulder.

"It is but a short distance," he grunted as much to himself as to her as he straightened up and plodded determinedly towards the house. "He would forgive me the indignity." Unable to help ease his burden she followed wearily. Would this nightmare ever end?

Erika was standing at the kitchen table, grating a thin yellow plant stem. As Elfhelm headed towards the bedroom with Lothiriel on his heels, she hurried after them. "Wait," she said, just as Elfhelm was about to put the king down. "You'll ruin the mattress, and we have need of it." Without a moment's hesitation she reached out and yanked Eomer's wet breeches from his body. Lothiriel gave a shocked gasp as she suddenly found herself seeing far more of the king than she'd ever dared to even imagine. She spun away, heat burning her cheeks.

"For the love of the gods, have you never seen a naked man before?" Erika snapped impatiently.

"Actually no," Lothiriel said, staring out of the bedroom door and trying not to think of the image that was now burned indelibly in her mind. "And I very much doubt that the king would appreciate you revealing him in such a fashion."

"And I very much doubt the king would appreciate lying in wet clothes on a damp mattress," Erika retorted. She pushed past Lothiriel. "See to him. I still have work to do with the Goldenseal, and I need Elfhelm's strength to press the sap from it."

Elfhelm squeezed her shoulder as he stepped past her, but when she looked at him, she was dismayed to see amusement in his eyes. She glowered at his back. How could he think this was funny? Was he not supposed to protect the king's dignity as well as his person? Desperately she tried to think of a reason not to do what Erika had ordered.

"Where's Breda?" she asked. "She's married and so..."

"Breda has a farm to run and a family to care for," Erika replied, glancing up from her work. "Lothiriel, the king needs you. Now."

She treated Erika to the same glower she'd just used on Elfhelm, then she took a deep breath and turned round. Her gaze immediately fell on the piece of cloth draped across the king's hips. For one ridiculous moment she wasn't sure if she was pleased or disappointed that Elfhelm had thought to cover the king after all. Wretched man. He could've told her he had done so instead of taking amusement at her discomfort. Calming her confused emotions she moved to the bedside and once again felt Eomer's temperature. As she had feared his skin was already overly warm. Quickly she fetched a bowl of cold water and a cloth, and once again set about cooling him down, keeping her eyes and her hands well above his waist and her mind firmly focused on the mundane task of damping the cloth and wringing it out.

It was almost dark before Erika finally stepped into the bedroom with a small bowl in her hand. Breda had put her children to bed and was preparing a meal for the adults. Elfhelm had taken Lothiriel's place at the king's bedside and was wiping the sweat from Eomer's body with the same firm strokes that he used to groom his horse.

"It is normal to take this as a tea," Erika said. "Instead I have mixed the sap with some honey in the hope that a large dose will start to work more swiftly." She scooped a spoonful of yellowish-brown runny liquid from the bowl. "Elfhelm, can you hold his mouth open?"

Clearly not liking the task, Elfhelm did as he was bid. Capturing Eomer's jaw with one hand, he pressed his thumb and forefinger hard into the sockets of his cheeks. A soft groan escaped Eomer's throat at the painful interference. "Be quick," Elfhelm growled.

Erika stepped forward and held the spoon against Eomer's bottom lip so the liquid could run into his mouth. Elfhelm swore as Eomer instinctively tried to twist free. Releasing the pressure that was forcing Eomer's jaws open, he now clamped a hand over his mouth, forcing him to swallow. "Is that it?"

"Two more spoonfuls," Erika replied.

Elfhelm's response to that was even more colourful. "Let's get it over with then," he said harshly.

Unable to watch them repeat the distressing procedure, Lothiriel turned away. Breda caught her eye and smiled sympathetically.

"I could use a hand here," she said.

Grateful for the distraction Lothiriel took the vegetable knife from her and began to remove the skins from a pile of potatoes.

"You care a great deal for him," Breda commented conversationally.

Lothiriel glanced at her, embarrassed to be the object of the woman's astute observation. "I barely know him," she replied.

"There are two kinds of knowing," Breda said. "Sometimes knowing a man means you can sew a tunic for him that will fit, serve his favourite foods, and give an answer as to whether he was born in winter or summer. But there is also the knowing of a man that comes the first time you set eyes on him."

"What do you mean?"

"We see with much more than our eyes. Sometimes when we meet a man there is an immediate understanding of who he is, of his character – his strengths and his weaknesses. A bonding of spirits if you will. I think you know this man very well, Lothiriel. That you did from the moment you met him."

"That's ridiculous," she protested.

"Is it?"

"Yes."

"So he did not make your heart beat faster when he first looked at you?"

Lothiriel stared at Breda, remembering that moment on the hillside when Eomer's gaze had seemed to penetrate her very being.

Breda gave a small smile. "And you did not feel giddy? Like a child who had been spun in a circle."

Still Lothiriel did not reply. This wasn't something she wanted to think about, let alone give voice to. What she thought, what she felt, it was all too strange.

Breda leaned closer and lowered her voice. "And can you deny that a heat began to burn between your legs that only he can cool?"

"No!" Lothiriel said, horrified at the crudity. The memory of Eomer's nakedness flashed back into her mind, and she speared a potato with her knife as she felt her cheeks flame. "Absolutely not."

Breda laughed softly. "It is naught to be ashamed of. There is nothing more pleasurable than the joining of a man and a woman." She patted her swollen belly. "Trust me, I should know."

"That is as maybe," Lothiriel said, intrigued by the woman's openness and yet painfully aware that such things were not considered a suitable topic of conversation in Dol Amroth. "But it matters not what I feel or desire. His heart belongs to Erika."

"Erika?" Breda looked surprised. "Then that is a shame because she does not care for him as you do."

"What?" Lothiriel's hands were suddenly shaking. "Did she tell you that?"

"I do not need to be told something that is plain to see. What makes you think that she does?"

"Well..." Lothiriel began. To her surprise she realised she couldn't offer up any evidence. Now that she really considered it, all her thoughts were based on the assumption she'd made on seeing the way Eomer had greeted Erika on his release.

Breda was watching her. Waiting. When Lothiriel didn't reply she smiled again, clearly taking her silence as proof that she was right. "Erika's heart has long belonged to another, but sadly the war took him. Unless I am very much mistaken, though, she has warmed towards Master Elfhelm - and he to her."

Lothiriel's mouth fell open. "Erika and Elfhelm?"

"It is but early days, but mark my words, there might not be the fire that I see in your eyes, but there is a spark that may yet catch flame."

Her mind was already spinning both with the shock that Breda should think it so obvious that she had feelings for Eomer. The thought that she had been wrong about a romantic relationship existing between Erika and Eomer was almost too much to take in, and besides, even if Erika did not return the king's love, it did not mean that love did not exist. However, she could not help but acknowledge the sense of hope that had suddenly awoken within her. Nor the idea that perhaps Breda was right - it was possible to feel a strong attraction to a man about whom she knew so few facts.

Her thoughts came to an abrupt end as Elfhelm stepped out of the bedroom, his face grim. "It's done," he said, slamming the empty bowl down on the table. He scrubbed a hand through his hair and took a deep breath, clearly composing himself. Finally he looked at her, his eyes still haunted. "Erika says we will need to take turns watching over him through the night, but that she will sit with him first. You should get some sleep."

"Eat first, then sleep," Breda said. "The meal will soon be ready."

Lothiriel nodded. "You need to sleep too, Elfhelm. You cannot watch over us all the time. We must trust fate to be kind and grant us protection."

He blew out a frustrated breath, his gaze flicking to the outer door. "Perhaps I will just check on the horses."

"The dog will warn us if anyone enters the yard," Breda said. "I sleep lightly. We will not be taken by surprise."

Elfhelm nodded. "Even so, I think I will just... check on the horses."

Lothiriel watched him go. He was right to be concerned, of course. Selred and his men would not stop looking for them. Galwyn, too, would not rest until Eomer was dead, and who knew what dark powers she could call up to seek him out. The night ahead was going to be a long one. There was still hope. There_ had_ to be hope.

---------------------

Eothain sat in silence as the men of the eored feasted around him. Red meat was still in short supply in Rohan, but somehow Ceorl had managed to find a generous supply of chicken and other fowl, as well as fish. The tables were also well-laden with fragrant bread, vegetables and fruit pies. More importantly, though, the ale flowed freely. Eothain knew that few of the men would care about the quantity or quality of the food so long as they could drink their fill. His own tankard, however, stood untouched.

Tonight he wished to keep a clear head. He accepted another helping of spiced bread as the platter passed down the table, and chewed thoughtfully, his gaze on the queen. He had heard the rumours, of course. They said the loss of Eomer had broken her heart and her spirit. Now, though, as he looked at her pale face with its bruised cheek, he wondered if it was sorrow that he was seeing or some darker emotion.

He had known Eowyn for a long time. Knew of the bond between brother and sister. But he did not believe that the young woman who had ridden into battle with the men of Rohan and defeated the Witch King would react so badly to this most recent loss. It was without doubt a hard blow for someone who had lost so much before, but Eowyn had found love after the war. She had returned to Edoras a changed woman. Had it been Lord Faramir that had perished, he could've accepted the truth of rumours that she was mad with grief. But for Eomer? No, though she loved him dearly, it made scant sense.

He shoved more bread into his mouth and shifted his gaze to Ceorl. Elfhelm had once voiced his dislike of the rapidity with which Ceorl had been accepted by Eomer and included into his circle of advisors. At the time Eothain had teasingly accused Elfhelm of being jealous. Rohan has so few young men, he'd argued, let us not set ourselves against those we do have. The Marshall had given him a sour look and never raised the subject again. Now, though, he found himself questioning his own jealousy. Ceorl as First Marshall? It sat in his stomach like meat gone bad. How could this young rider have leapt so high up the ranks so quickly? What was it that the queen saw in him that others did not? Or had Elfhelm been right all along? Was there more to Ceorl than a young man eager to please and serve?

He watched as Ceorl worked his way around the room, smiling broadly and bestowing lavish compliments on the men of the eored he now commanded. Did he truly think to win them over with pretty words? If so, he was a fool. The Riders of the Mark judged themselves and others by actions, not words. Ah, now this would be interesting. Ceorl had reached Edric, and it was clear that the lad had no desire to join in the banter. Quickly Eothain picked up his tankard, drained the contents and then headed towards the barrel situated just behind the two riders. Normally he would not condone the deliberate eavesdropping of other people's conversation, but on this occasion he was keen to know what was about to transpire.

"Edric, Edric," Ceorl said mournfully as Eothain walked passed. "I know you would wish another was leading the eored, but I beg of you, let's put all differences aside tonight."

The young lad stared down at the table, clearly uncertain how to react to such a bold approach. "I wish only to serve Rohan," he mumbled sullenly.

"As do I," Ceorl said. He picked up Edric's empty tankard. "Let me show you how willing I am by serving you." Before Edric could protest he'd swung away, heading towards the barrel.

"Master Eothain," Ceorl said politely as Eothain stepped aside to give him access to the tap.

"Marshall," Eothain replied brusquely, the title all but choking him.

"How are you enjoying the feast?"

"It is a most generous gesture," Eothain replied carefully. "And no doubt well meant."

Ceorl's eyes narrowed. "You do not approve."

Eothain's gaze shifted to the queen, who was sitting stony faced at the top table. "It is difficult to find the spirit to celebrate when the loss of a friend not yet been fully honoured."

"You mean the king," Ceorl said.

"Aye," Eothain replied, meeting Ceorl's eye.

"You think I dishonour his memory with this... generous gesture?" Ceorl made a circular motion with his hand, encompassing the room and all who were in it.

"You already speak of him as a memory, even though he is yet to be buried." Eothain couldn't keep the bitterness from his voice. "What does that say of honour, Ceorl?"

"Merely that while others stand and mourn, I am looking out for the future of Rohan." Ceorl's knuckles were white as he gripped the tap of the barrel. "You would do well to do the same. Now, if you'll excuse me."

Eothain cursed silently as he watched Ceorl slide back into the seat next to Edric. Getting into a verbal sparring match with the man was not what he'd intended. Nor, he suspected, had it been very wise. It was too late not to take the words back, though. And besides, he hadn't said anything he hadn't meant. There was an element of disrespect in holding a celebratory feast before Eomer had been buried. Grief darkened his mood further as he watched the new First Marshall encouraging Edric to drink. The lad grimaced as he swallowed a mouthful of ale. That was no surprise. His drinking companion was enough to sour even the finest of brews.

Words were exchanged and then Ceorl took the tankard and sniffed at the contents, before returning it with a shake of his head. He clinked his own mug against Edric's, proposed some kind of toast, and then downed his drink in one. Edric peered uncertainly into tankard once again, but then followed suit, banging it down on the table when it was empty. With a laugh, Ceorl slapped him on the back and then moved on. Edric, his face pale, reached for slice of spiced bread and chewed rapidly as though dispersing a bad taste from his mouth.

Eothain frowned and sipped at his own ale. Returning to his seat, he once again settled back to watch the revellers – unease his own drinking companion.


	19. Eyes wide open

_A/N: It seems people were most appreciative of Eomer being parted from his clothes in the previous chapter. Why am I not surprised? :-) Sadly I do not think there will be much cause to keep him naked in future instalments, but I will do my best to be creative. Meanwhile... on we go._

**Chapter 19 – Eyes wide open**

At last, the screaming was beginning to fade. Men. Horses. Death and destruction. So much loss. So much pain. Eowyn. No, no, not Eowyn!

Eomer fought his way past it all, reaching desperately towards the light. The Pelennor Fields belonged to the past. If he was there now, then it was just a dream - or rather a nightmare. Reality awaited. All he had to do was wake. Simply open his eyes and wake.

Consciousness returned slowly. He realised he could smell the damp, musty aroma of mud walls, and that there was a foul taste in his mouth. When he curled the fingers of his right hand, he felt course linen, and beneath his back was the familiar lumpiness of a mattress filled with horse hair. He moved slightly and felt cool air against his bare skin. Vaguely he registered the fact that he was lying on his back, all but naked. In the fuzzy world between unconsciousness and alertness, the latter fact was simply something to note, to file away as he moved forward. The sudden touch of something cold against his face made him start. It tracked from his forehead down his right cheek and then along the side of his neck and across his chest. He swatted at it irritably.

"Eomer?" A soft female voice whispered his name. "Are you awake?"

Awake? Yes. He finally realised that he was indeed awake. Slowly he opened his eyes. Dark. Too dark to see. No, wait. He blinked. He was looking up at a ceiling made of rough wooden planks. Confusion washed over him. Where was he? Clearly not in Edoras. Not encamped either - this wasn't his tent. Where then?

"Thank the gods. I feared you would never wake."

The voice sounded to his right. Slowly he turned he head. And found himself looking at the face of a beautiful woman. She had dark hair that framed an oval face. Long lashed grey eyes. Full lips that begged to be kissed. She smiled at him, then reached out and cupped his cheek as a tear trickled down her own.

"The fever is gone. Thank the gods."

He tried to speak. To tell her not to cry on his behalf, but his lips were dry and cracked, and his tongue refused to form the words. Concern replaced the relief on her face. Turning away, she reached for something that he couldn't see, and then he felt her arm slide under his head. Carefully she lifted his head from the pillow.

"Drink this," she said.

A cup pressed against his lips. Obediently he took a sip and cool, sweet liquid filled his mouth. He'd expected water, but found his taste buds being ravaged by the flowery sweetness of honey. When he swallowed there was a bitter aftertaste that was the same foul taste that he had awoken too. Medicine of some kind? Or... poison? He remembered now. He'd been poisoned. But not by this woman. She was... He hunted for a name. Oh yes, Lothiriel. He took another sip from the cup, and was relieved that she then removed it, letting him sink back against the pillow. Tired, he was so very tired, but she was smiling down at him again and he wanted to respond. Slowly he reached up determined to wipe away the tear that still clung to her cheek. For a moment she looked puzzled but then he saw understanding in her eyes. She leaned into his touch, her gaze never leaving his face.

"So beautiful," he murmured. His hand fell away, the effort of holding his arm up too much for him. Sleep reclaimed him.

-------------------------------------------------

"Erika, come quickly!" Lothiriel called. "He woke. Just briefly, but he was definitely awake and lucid." She was all but laughing with the relief of it as the young healer hurried through the doorway.

Erika rubbed sleep from her eyes as she crossed to the bed. She placed her hand against Eomer's forehead and smiled. "The fever has broken at last." Elfhelm was standing in the doorway now, and she turned to him. "The king is fortunate to have you as a friend. Your Goldenseal has no doubt saved his life."

"We all played our part," Elfhelm replied gruffly. "Including the king himself no doubt. Few men are as strong-willed." He glanced towards Lothiriel. "Did he say anything?"

Heat burnt her cheeks at the memory of his words and it was all she could do not to betray herself by brushing her fingers against the skin where moments before his hand had touched her. "Nothing of any importance," she said.

Elfhelm frowned. "Everything the king says is of importance."

Totally embarrassed now, Lothiriel stared down at the sleeping man on the bed. "It was personal," she said, her voice little more than a whisper.

"Personal?" Elfhelm looked stunned.

Erika shot him a dark look that clearly made him think better of whatever else he was going to say, and then she smiled across the bed at Lothiriel. "Why don't you rest a while? He is likely to slumber for some time yet and you look in need of sleep for yourself. When he wakes again I'll be sure to call you."

Unless Lothiriel was very much mistaken there was a softness to Erika's tone and words that implied she too believed that Lothiriel had feelings for the king. Had Breda been gossiping behind her back? It wouldn't surprise her to learn that was so.

"Shoo," Erika said gently, gesturing Lothiriel towards the doorway.

Oddly reluctant though she was to leave Eomer's side, Lothiriel did as she was bid, brushing past Elfhelm as she moved into the living area. He handed her his cloak as he followed her, and then he nodded towards the ladder leading up into the loft. "Breda and the children are up there. I dare say there's room for one more. You'll find it warmer and more comfortable than down here on the floor."

Nodding gratefully she crept up the ladder. Elfhelm was right. The children were all cuddled around their mother, leaving room between some sacks of grain for another sleeper. She wrapped his cloak around herself and made herself as comfortable as possible on the reed-strewn wooden floor. Her last thought as she fell asleep was that she had no right feeling so pleased that Eomer of Rohan considered her beautiful.

---------------------------------

Summoned by Ceorl! The order stuck in Eothain's gullet as he headed through the Golden Hall to the First Marshall's quarters - rooms that had once belonged to Prince Theodred. How had things come to such a pass that he was at the beck and call of this interloper? And what possessed the queen to invest such authority in one who was unknown in Rohan until a few brief weeks ago? He tugged uncomfortably at his tunic, aware that such thoughts could easily be labelled as treason. Still he could not stop them from forming. This was madness. There was no other word for it.

He slowed his pace as his gaze fell on two men in blue tunics standing guard outside the Marshall's door. That was another thing that set Eothain's teeth on edge. Edoras was protected by the eored he served in. There was no need for another guard. Their presence was an insult. He moved to walk between them and suddenly found his way barred by their swords.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded.

"The Marshall's time is precious," the guard to his left said, his tone superior. "He does not wish to be disturbed with trivial demands."

Eothain's fists balled at his side. He recognised the man as a labourer from the stable. Clearly putting him in a uniform and giving him a sword had made him think he was something special. However, like most of the able-bodied men at Edoras the chances were that he had, at one time or another, fought besides either Théoden or Eomer. With great effort Eothain forced himself to be polite. "The Marshall requested my presence."

The guard exchanged a look with his companion, and then both men sheathed their swords. "You'd best not keep him waiting, then."

Such insolence. Eothain burst into the room, barely able to contain his indignation. "It seems your personal guard is somewhat lacking in manners," he said.

Ceorl looked up from the map he was studying. He frowned. "Do you consider manners more important than the ability to wield a sword when choosing new men for the eored?"

"Of course not, but..."

"Then pray do not see fit to offer council where it is not required." He beckoned Eothain to the table. "Come, I wish to show you something." Stung by the rebuke, Eothain reluctantly did as he was told.

Ceorl stabbed a finger at the north-eastern border. "I have heard that orcs are still causing trouble in this region. I want you to take the eored there. If we patrol the lands for the next three months, these creatures will know..."

"Three months?" Eothain couldn't believe his ears. "Winter will be upon us. The conditions will be..."

"Yes, yes. It will be difficult I know. But come the spring we will reap the rewards when our new-born foals are running freely on the plains without fear of orcs."

"The conditions will be more than difficult," Eothain growled. "The north-eastern border is extremely exposed and there is nowhere large enough to act as a base for a full eored."

"Then you will have to make a camp," Ceorl said.

"Camp? When snow and blizzards will be the daily fare?"

"If you are not up to the task, I am sure I can find someone who is." Ceorl's eyes flashed with challenge. Daring Eothain to give up his position.

He would not give the man the satisfaction of that. Better a suicide mission, than to leave Rohan completely in the hands of such a villain. He changed tack, hoping to divert the Marshall through the use of logic. "You would have us leave Edoras unprotected for three months?"

"No, of course not. My ill-mannered guard, as you choose to describe them, will see that Edoras - and her queen - are both kept safe." Ceorl poured himself a goblet of wine, pointedly not offering any to Eothain. "Now, I have much to do as I am sure you have also. I want the eored mustered and ready to leave by dawn tomorrow, Eothain. You can manage that, can you not?"

For a moment, Eothain did not move. His fingers itched to wipe the smug look off Ceorl's face, and only his warrior discipline prevented him from doing so.

Ceorl held his gaze coolly. "Is there something else, Eothain?"

He didn't dare speak because without doubt the words would have him seeing the inside of Meduseld's dungeons. Teeth gritted, Eothain gave a slight bow of his head in acceptance of the order. Then, with an abrupt turn he strode from the room.

He had thought the nightmares had ended at the Black Gates of Mordor. How wrong he had been.


	20. More haste, less speed

_A/N: Wow! Thank you for all the reviews on the previous chapter. It was fantastic to hear from you all. Here's a few quick replies:_

_Eokat – I wondered where you'd got too. Glad to hear you're back online._

_Blue Eyes At Night – Good observation. Will try to rein in Eomer's enthusiasm for description. g_

_Marauder4eva – Glad to have enticed you. Lots more action coming up._

_ObsessedWithHarrypotter – thank you. More angst will be delivered with the action._

_Lindahoyland – Faramir and Aragorn will arrive eventually. Eowyn is waiting impatiently for one of them ;-)_

_Haldir's Heart and Soul – Love your straight to the point reviews. Soon, my precioussss, soon. _

_Athelas63 – Kissing? Hmmm… yes, there may be some kissing coming up for the romantics amongst you._

_Ladyscribe of avandell – Sorry about Ceorl, but hopefully some of the future chapters will make up for his evilness._

_Lackwit – I did have a logical answer for your question, but now I've forgotten what it was. I think I'm as confused and stressed as Eothain now. This was meant to be a short story, not an epic ;-)_

_If I've missed anyone – apologies. Do appreciate you all. xx_

_Yay - now at last I can update, having been caught out by all the upgrade thingys that have gone on over recent days. So, with no further waffling, on with story…_

**Chapter 20 – More haste, less speed**

The second time Eomer woke, consciousness returned more easily. Lothiriel was sitting beside him again, a smile lighting up her face as his gaze locked on her. He smiled back - grateful to be free of the nightmares, grateful to find her there.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, pressing her fingers against his forehead to check his temperature.

He considered a moment. The agonising pain in his belly was now just a dull ache. His head no longer seemed to contain a dozen orc drummers, and the dizziness and nausea were thankfully absent. "Thirsty," he said, as his brain registered the parched nature of his throat and mouth. The word came out as little more than a dry whisper, verifying the truth of the statement. Once again she slipped an arm beneath his shoulders and helped him lift his head from the pillow. He took a gulp of the liquid in the cup she held to his lips, then pulled away, concerned that the sweet cloying liquid would not quench his raging thirst. "Water," he said, by way of request.

"Drink this first," she replied, lifting it to his lips again. "It will strengthen you." Reluctantly he took another mouthful. "All of it," she urged. Biting back his frustration he emptied the cup. When he spoke again his voice no longer sounded as though it had been rasped with sand. "Now may I have water?" he asked petulantly.

"Elfhelm said you would be a difficult patient," she chided, bringing a second cup to his lips.

He ignored the comment, every sense taken up with his need to replenish the fluids in his body. The water was cool and deliciously bland after the sweet-then-bitter tang of the medicine, and he swiftly drained the cup. "More."

"Soon. Give your stomach chance to deal with that first."

Her words made sense, but her refusal sparked his annoyance. He opened his mouth to protest, but thought better of it as she frowned at him. He wanted to be the cause of her smiles, not her ill-temper. The realisation of that was alarming, but even more so was the potential reason for such a desire and he quickly shut down that line of thinking as he leaned back into the pillow. Instead he concentrated on the details of his surroundings. The room was small and sparsely furnished, and judging from the lumpy surface beneath his back he was lying on well-worn horsehair mattress. From the waist down he was covered by a thin linen sheet. His chest was bare, but there seemed little point in requesting a shirt for modesty's sake since Lothiriel had clearly been nursing him for some time. The splint on his left arm was still there, reminding him of the broken bone that lay beneath and the fall that had caused it. Memory of recent events returned, and he gazed round one more time as it slowly dawned on him that the room was totally unfamiliar. "Where am I?"

"In a holding just beyond the edge of the woods that lie to the north. You are a guest of Breda, Daughter of…"

"We were riding to Edoras," he said sharply. Eowyn was in trouble. His kingdom was under threat. What the hell was he doing waking up in a bed in some distant holding? "How long have I been asleep? And where is Elfhelm?"

"Eomer…"

"Fetch him. Now." He began to push himself from the bed. He had to get to Edoras. Had to prove that he was neither dead nor a captive. Had to aid his sister in her fight against Galwyn's son.

"Eomer, no! You are far too weak to get up." Lothiriel was on her feet in an instant, her hand cool against his bare chest as she tried to push him back against the pillow. He swatted her arm away. How dare she try to treat him like a child? He recalled how the three of them had earlier formed an impenetrable triangle to impede his will. It seemed there was no limit to how far they were willing to go in ignoring his wishes. Did they not understand the dangers that lurked between the walls of the Golden Hall? Dangers that only he could fight?

"I said, fetch Elfhelm." He growled the words, his temper flaring.

"I am already here, your Majesty." Elfhelm ducked beneath the lintel of the doorway.

Eomer glared at him. "What the hell is going on?" he demanded. "Did I not order us to ride for Edoras?" He snatched at the sheet in order to maintain his dignity as he slowly swung his legs over the edge of the bed. His limbs were trembling with the exertion of sitting up, but he refused to acknowledge the fact. He saw Elfhelm flinch and a sick feeling of disbelief washed over him. "You disobeyed me?"

Lothiriel spoke before Elfhelm had chance. "You were feverish. We thought you were going to die. We had no choice."

"Stay out of this," Eomer snarled. His gaze burned into Elfhelm. "Answer me. Did you disobey a direct order from your king?"

Elfhelm dropped to one knee, his head bowed. "Forgive me, Sire, I didn't know what else to do."

Eomer swore. "There was only one thing to do, Elfhelm. Pray tell me, when did my orders become the subject of debate? When did my authority cease to mean anything?"

Erika's voice cut through the air. "When you became incapable of sitting astride a horse and your words became feverish babble."

Eomer tore his gaze from the kneeling form of his marshall as she stepped into the room. He met her angry gaze with fire of his own. "How dare you…"

"How dare we save your life?" Erika snapped. She threw a pile of clean clothes onto the bed next to him. "These belong to Breda's husband, but they should fit you. Get dressed and we will continue this conversation outside your sick room."

"I will decide when and where we will converse," Eomer shouted, his temper in full flow now.

Erika didn't even flinch. "Prove to me you are well enough to be up and I will gladly bow to your authority, your Majesty. But if you cannot, then king or not, you will do as you are told until such a time as you are fit enough to resume your duties. We have not risked our lives saving you to now stand by and watch you undo all we have done." She turned away from him. "Lothiriel. Elfhelm. Come."

Stunned, Eomer watched as Erika stalked from the room. He looked at Lothiriel and saw disappointment on her face. Clearly he'd revealed a side of his character that she did not much care for. He swore silently as she lowered her gaze and, without a word, followed Erika from the room. Once again his emotions caught him off guard. While it mattered little to him that Erika had shown her disapproval, Lothiriel's disappointment was like a knife in his gut. Before he had chance to analyse that, though, Elfhelm rose swiftly to his feet. He bowed formally to Eomer, his back stiff and his shoulders rigid. Then he too turned towards the door.

"I am not finished with you," Eomer snapped, unable to believe the marshall was going to compound his sin by walking out on him.

Elfhelm stopped, turned slowly and then met Eomer's gaze, his expression pained. "Tell me, Eomer, what good is an oath of loyalty if it leads to the death of the person to whom it is given?"

"There is more at stake here than my well-being."

"No, you're wrong. I do not regret what I did for it was what I believed was best – both for you and Rohan."

"For me perhaps," Eomer admitted tersely. "But not for Rohan."

Elfhelm shook his head. "You are Rohan, Eomer. Like it or not, without you we are nothing."

"There is Eowyn…"

"Long has your sister been a shield maiden of Rohan, and had you fallen in battle she would have made a fine queen. But her heart belongs to Ithilien now, and that cannot be undone. Nor would any wish it to be. She deserves to be happy. You of all people know that." He paused, and then added wearily, "Punish me as you see fit. My fate is of little concern. Rohan still has her king, and that is all that matters." With that he ducked through the doorway.

For a moment, Eomer was too shocked to respond. Mixed emotions tumbled through him. He was furious at being so far from Edoras. But he could not deny that Elfhelm had a point. That there were times when one's conscience made it impossible to blindly follow an order no matter what oaths one had spoken. He remembered his own act of 'treachery' before the war. As Third Marshall, he had deliberately ridden out to fight a party of orcs against Theoden-King's express wishes. Being punished on his return for doing what he believed was right - for what had later been proven to be right - had been like salt in a wound, harsh and painful. Was he really going to treat Elfhelm the same way?

"We are waiting, your Majesty." Erika's voice taunted him from beyond the bedroom door.

His temper flared anew. Elfhelm might have good reason to behave as he had, but this chit of a girl needed putting in her place. The authority of a healer did not rank higher than that of a king. Strengthened afresh by his annoyance, he snatched the woollen pants from the pile of clothing and shoved his right leg into them. A wave of dizziness hit him, forcing him to close his eyes and breathe deeply. He swore softly to himself until it passed, and then quickly thrust his other leg into the pants and hitched them up and over his hips. The brief surge of energy had drained from him now. He pulled in another deep breath, pressed both hands against the mattress, wincing as his left arm protested, and pushed himself from the bed.

For a moment he thought he was fine, but as he moved to retrieve the shirt from the bed, the room did a sickening roll and suddenly the floor was rushing up to meet him. His right arm flailed wildly as he tried to grab hold of the bed, but failed. Then his legs buckled and he hit the damp earth hard enough for the air to be knocked from his lungs. For several moments, he simply lay in a crumpled heap on the reed-strewn ground and concentrated on staying conscious as his body let him now in no uncertain terms that it was not going to co-operate with his brain.

"Elfhelm." He heard Erika's voice in the doorway. "I believe the king requires your assistance in returning to bed." A pair of small booted feet appeared in his line of vision, the toes of one foot tapping impatiently a few inches from his nose. "Or am I mistaken? Perhaps crawling to Edoras is part of some complex plan of his Majesty's?"

"He is sick enough without you flaying him with your tongue, woman," Elfhelm growled from somewhere above Eomer's head. "Leave him be."

Eomer felt two strong hands beneath his armpits and then he was hoisted from the floor and dumped unceremoniously onto the bed. He had made a complete fool of himself. As he lay there, eyes closed, trying to catch his breath, he desperately wished he could relive the past few minutes. When he opened his eyes and saw the distress on Lothiriel's face, he wished it even more. There was only one thing for him to do.

"It seems I have just proven, more than adequately, that I am in no condition to go anyone's aid, least of all Eowyn's." He swallowed down the gall that rose with that statement, and turned towards Erika. "I apologise for my ill-temper."

"Apology accepted," Erika replied. "Perhaps it will sweeten your mood if I tell you that your strength will soon return."

"How soon?" he demanded.

"Two days. Three at the most." She eyed Eomer critically. "If you do as you're told." He bowed his head, knowing that this was the one time to admit defeat. She gave him a small smile by way of reward. "Believe me, your Majesty, we all wish to see you seated one the throne once again. If my words were harsh before…"

"They were warranted," Eomer said, chagrined that it was true. He glanced towards Elfhelm. "As was your action in deciding to come here. Let there be no more talk of broken oaths or of punishment. You have ever been loyal to Rohan, Elfhelm. And I know as well as any man that the danger of blindly following the bidding of a man not in full charge of his senses." He relaxed into the pillow as he saw the relief on Elfhelm's face. Finally he turned to Lothiriel. "I would ask your forgiveness too."

"There is nothing to forgive," she said swiftly.

"Yes there is. I spoke harshly to you whereas you have shown me nothing but kindness and care, and for that I am sorry." It was his turn to be relieved as she inclined her head in acceptance of his apology.

Erika once more took charge. "If you are to recover your strength, your Majesty, you need rest."

Elfhelm nodded. "We understand your desire to aid your sister. Truly we do. But you will achieve nought if you rush to Edoras while you can barely stand, let alone hold a sword. Be patient, Eomer. A few days more…"

"Two days," Eomer said firmly. "Not a moment longer." He looked at Erika, daring her to contradict him.

She considered him thoughtfully for a long moment. "Two days and not a word of complaint about the taste of the medicines I prepare for you."

"Agreed," Eomer said. "Though I am sure I shall regret the additional part of this bargain."

That bought a smile to Erika's face. "Sleep is the best healer of all now."

Frustrated Eomer leaned back against his pillow as Erika preceded Elfhelm through the doorway. How did she expect him to sleep knowing that Eowyn was in the company of a traitor and that his kingdom was under threat?

Lothiriel's voice broke into his brooding. "Your sister is a strong woman." She was still standing at the foot of his bed, concern on her face. "I am sure she would rather you used your energy to regain your strength than in worrying about her."

"I know you mean well, Lothiriel, but you don't understand. My sister has suffered enough on my account. To know she is once again unprotected through my own folly…"

"I am sure you are being too hard on yourself."

"No. I am not." He remembered the look on Eowyn's face the day he'd been banished from Rohan. Never had he seen such desolation in her eyes. He'd failed her in spectacular fashion, not just earning himself a beating at the hands of Grima's men, but leaving her completely at Wormtongue's mercy.

"Eomer…"

"I know. I need to rest." He cut her off, unwilling to give voice to the dark memories that an explanation for his earlier comment would naturally require. He could not change the past, but he could influence the future. Lothiriel turned to go, but he suddenly realised he didn't want to be alone. If he was to rest he needed a distraction from his thoughts and the nightmares that plagued him when he slept. What better way than with the company of a beautiful woman who, for some reason that still mystified him, had risked her own life to save his? "Please, will you stay a while?"

She looked startled at his request. "Erika said…"

"Erika will no doubt make my life as miserable as possible with her potions. I am sure, however, that she would not deny me the simple pleasure of a conversation. Please?" he gestured towards the chair next to his bed. For a moment he thought she was going to refuse him. It would have served him right if she had done so. He had been abominably rude to her moments earlier. To his relief, though, she inclined her head in agreement and stepped towards the chair. "You have me at something of a disadvantage," he said, shifting his shoulders against the pillow in the hope of finding a more comfortable position. "It seems I owe my life to someone about whom I know very little except a name."

She moved to help as he tugged ineffectually at his pillow. "Allow me." She touched his shoulder lightly to indicate he should lean forward. Instead of taking the pillow, however, she gently ran her hand across the bruised skin of his back. "Is it still painful?" she asked.

Her touch sent a rush of heat through him that had nothing to do with the poison-induced fever. "At this exact moment in time?" he asked, holding her gaze. "No."

Her eyes widened in surprise and then she snatched her hand away, grabbed at the pillow and shook it vigorously to redistribute the feather stuffing. She thrust it behind him again as though it had suddenly become too hot to touch. He felt even more of an idiot now. It hadn't been his intention to flirt with her, but the scent of her hair had filled his nostrils, his eyes had been level with the swell of her bosom and what few brain cells he had left from the dual assault on his senses had suddenly become more interested in wondering what it would be like to kiss her than registering the dull ache of his bruises. He had wanted a distraction, but this was far more than he had bargained for, and the words had simply tumbled from his mouth before he'd had chance to consider their impact.

She was sitting on the chair now. Her back was very straight and her hands were folded neatly in her lap. "What would you like to talk about?" she asked as though nothing out of the ordinary had just transpired. The awkward position of the pillow behind his back was proof, however, that he had not just imagined she had been flustered by his comment. He did not dare attempt to move it, though. Instead he fixed what he hoped was a relaxed expression on his face and quickly sought a safe topic of conversation. "Tell me about your family. Or your home. I've heard that Dol Amroth is beautiful."

The tension in her shoulders eased. "It is indeed," she said. For the next few minutes she described her home to him, her eyes lighting up as she told him of the many moods of the sea. He couldn't help but once again wonder what it would be like to kiss her.

"Eomer?"

"What?" His attention suddenly snapped back to the conversation.

She frowned slightly. "I said perhaps one day you will honour us with a visit. Then you can see for yourself."

"I'd like that," he replied hastily, embarrassed by his own behaviour. What was the matter with him? "I met your father during the war. He is a good man." He studied her face for a moment, keeping his gaze well away from her lips. "I can see the resemblance."

"Really? Most people say I take after my mother in appearance." Lothiriel hesitated then added softly. "I'm afraid I find it hard to remember what she looked like. I was only six when she died."

"I'm sorry," Eomer said. He felt a wave of sympathy for her as he remembered the painful days that had followed the loss of his own mother.

"So am I," Lothiriel replied. There was sadness in her tone, but no self-pity. "I would give a great deal to have had but a few more years with her."

"A few years. A few hours. A few moments. I know what it's like to live with that longing."

Lothiriel looked puzzled for a moment, but then understanding registered. "Forgive me. I'd forgotten that you lost both your parents at a young age."

For a moment he wondered how she knew, but then recalled that she had grown close to Eowyn. "I was twelve. It was harder for Eowyn, being so much younger." His gaze drifted to the end of the bed. "I promised her that I would always be there…" He trailed off, realised he'd returned to the one subject he was trying to avoid. Quickly he shifted the focus. "You father hasn't remarried?"

"By the gods no." She laughed softly. "Though many have tried to persuade him to do so. He is forever complaining that he needs an armed guard simply to fend off the many simpering women who believe he is in need of a wife and that they are perfect for the role."

"I know that feeling too," Eomer replied.

"Do you now," Lothiriel answered with amusement.

"Oh yes. It was bad enough when I was Third Marshall. Now that I am king it seems that every mother in Rohan is in competition to wed me to their daughters."

"Such a terrible problem," Lothiriel teased. "But do none of them meet with your approval?"

The question caught him by surprise, as did the answer. No, he realised, none of them did. While he was not blind to a pretty face or ignorant of the physical comforts offered by marriage, the constant skirmishes on Rohan's borders had caused him to fear he had little to offer a wife except an early widowhood. Then there was both the threat of war and the reality of its arrival. As for those who would have gladly serviced him between the sheets without a wedding band, well, respect for Theoden had kept him celibate on the rare occasions he was at court long enough to be tempted otherwise. The king had made it clear that he did not wish to see the features of his son or his nephew on the faces of any children not conceived in a marriage bed.

Perhaps, though, he'd just been fooling himself. Perhaps the real reason he had rarely been tempted to bed a woman was because none had ever made him experience the feelings he was battling with right now. He stared at Lothiriel, stunned by the implication of his thoughts. Had he been bewitched as well as poisoned? For clearly he was no longer the man he had been but a few days ago. He had often heard it said that facing death changed a man. Having fought in more battles than he cared to remember, he hadn't believed it to be true. But now he was tempted to think that perhaps in battle one did not have time to look death in the face, whereas knowing that poison flowed in your veins… He shivered at the memory. Now that was an experience that definitely made a man face his mortality.

"You're cold," Lothiriel said, fresh concern on her face. "While you were feverish we thought it best to keep the bedclothes to as few as possible. Let me fetch you a blanket."

He watched her leave. She was as graceful as a cat, but there was a strength to her that revealed a childhood growing up with older brothers. He could imagine her chasing after them, wanting to be included in their games and rough and tumble, just as Eowyn had with him. Lothiriel of Dol Amroth. He found himself smiling as he silently sounded out her name, and he shook his head at the complex web of emotions he found himself caught in. Leaning forward, he adjusted the pillow and then settled back to await her return.

A fresh wave of exhaustion suddenly washed over him. Just outside the bedroom, he could hear her voice, soft and feminine. A deeper voice joined in the conversation. Elfhelm, he thought, oddly comforted by the knowledge that the Marshall was there to watch over them. He turned onto his side, and let the gentle rise and fall of Lothiriel's voice wash over him like a lullaby.

----------------------

Lothiriel smiled as she returned with the blanket. Eomer had rolled onto his stomach while she'd been gone. His right arm was wrapped around his pillow in the manner that a child would clutch a comforter. His left, still encased in its bandaged split from elbow to wrist, was flung above his head in a relaxed line. The bruising that had caught her attention was more obvious now, and she once again wondered what it was that made Galwyn hate him with such a passion that she would inflict such hurt on him. Thank the gods he was in her care now. She knew beyond all doubt that she would do anything to keep him safe, that somehow this man had managed to steal into her heart and draw from her the kind of protective instinct hitherto reserved for her brothers. It was more than that, though. As she looked as his face - so calm and peaceful as he slumbered - she could no longer deny the truth. She was attracted to him - quite strongly if the way his words had flustered her earlier was anything to go by.

Faramir had been right all along. There was more to Eomer of Rohan than mere ability to wield a sword and ride a horse. There had been no denying his physical attractiveness even when his face was streaked with grime and the pain was twisting his features into a grimace. She still remembered the way her knees had suddenly seemed incapable of holding her up when he'd turned the full force of those hazel eyes on her back on the hilltop. What was more, thanks to Erika's disregard of decorum, she knew that any future queen of Rohan was not going to be disappointed by her husband's naked physique. What had surprised her, though, was the sadness with which he had spoken of his own parents when she'd mentioned losing her mother. She found herself imagining what must have been like to arrive at Edoras as an orphan. Eowyn frequently complained that her brother was over-protective, but now she understood. Eomer had been wrenched from his childhood with a cruel abruptness, and perhaps deep down feared that everything else he loved would also be snatched from him. As a result there was an intensity to him that was almost frightening. However, she recognised too that there was another side to that trait. Once Eomer gave his heart to someone or something, it was a gift for life. Were he to marry for love rather than political advantage…

She realised she was being foolish again. A brief hour of conversation and her mind was running through hallways full of fantasy. Better not to think such things. Besides it was clear from his comments earlier that Eomer would prefer to be the hunter, rather than the hunted. She would do herself no favours in giving him scope to compare her to those who had already attempted to ensnare him.

For the love of the gods, she was doing it again. Whatever was the matter with her? Better then to not think of him at all. Quickly she unfolded the blanket and draped it over him. Then she forced herself to turn away, leaving him to sleep in peace.


	21. Discovery

**Chapter 21 – Discovery**

_A/N: Thanks again for the lovely reviews. To everyone who asked about Aragorn and Faramir – they are still travelling uneventfully towards Rohan, but will be involved in the action soon. Meanwhile, there's a villain or two for Eomer and Elfhelm to deal with…_

Selred drew his horse to a halt and waited for the other rider to approach. It was barely dawn, and the early morning mist swirled around him like a wraith, its cold fingers chilling him to the bone. This task should've been over by now. He should be waking in his bed, warm and comfortable, not still chasing shadows. Behind him the rustling of the trees sounded like mocking laughter, and he felt his chest tighten in irritation.

"Well?" he demanded, the moment the rider was in earshot.

"No one has passed me by. Neither on the road nor across open country."

"You're sure?"

"I swear my life upon it."

"Be careful what you voice, man. It may yet end up that our lives our forfeit." Selred twisted round in his saddle and glared at the wood. A curse upon this cur of a king. Somehow he had managed to evade capture. Galwyn's words rang in his mind. _He rides not to freedom but to death. _Perhaps Eomer of Rohan had passed his last hours in agony on the leaf-strewn floor of this pitiful excuse for a forest. If so, Selred's only disappointment was in not having been there to hear his death rattle. However, even if that was the case, that still left the mysterious disappearance of his companions. There was only one answer. They must have turned north again after that fog-covered chase through the trees.

"What new orders do you have for me?" the rider asked, shifting impatiently in his saddle.

Selred considered for a moment, his gaze taking in the three men who still rode with him. "Ride to Edoras," he said. "Tell Ceorl what you know - that the king is most likely dead of his mother's poison, but there are those who know that he did not die at the hands of a bunch of wild men."

"And what if he asks who these people are?"

"Inform him it is two Rohirrim, one male, one female, and a Gondorian noblewoman." Selred straightened his back. "He does not need to fear, though. I think I know where they are." He met the rider's gaze. "Tell Ceorl, I shall send him their heads as a wedding gift."

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"Where is Edric?" Eothain demanded as he supervised the eored early the next morning. "Has anyone seen him?"

"Please, Master Eothain, he is unwell."

He swung round to face the person addressing him, another young lad who would also have been considered far too young to ride out with an eored had it not been for the war. "Unwell? Where is he?"

"Still abed, sir."

"Abed?" The news was a shock. Few things kept Edric from his horse, and to be absent on a morning such as this did not bode well. "Has a healer been to see him?"

The boy paled. "No, sir. 'Tis only too much food and ale."

Eothain growled at that suggestion. "You had better hope for his sake, more than a hangover ails him. Members of this eored do not shirk their duty because they have drunk too much." He strode in the direction of the cottage that was home to several of the young riders. Moments later he rapped on the door and then marched into the dimly lit interior without waiting for a response. "Edric?" A low groan greeted him. "Get up, lad," he said, spotting a prone form on one of the beds. "We are about to ride out and…" He swore as he rolled Edric onto his back and caught sight of his pale clammy skin and the dark shadows beneath his eyes. "By the gods, lad, this is no hangover. What ails you?" He wasn't surprised to receive no answer. Edric was barely conscious. His breath was coming in wheezy gasps and his pulse was weak and uneven beneath Eothain's probing finger. "I'll have the healer to you in no time," he said, squeezing the young man's shoulder. "Don't you go dying on me before I'm back."

A short time later the eored rode through the main gates of Edoras minus one member. Eothain's lips were set in a grim line as he led the way. The healer had been at a loss to explain Edric's sudden collapse, nor did he seem confident that he could treat him. He'd declared the symptoms to be most mysterious, unlike anything he'd ever seen before, and then quizzed the members of the house as to what Edric had eaten and drunk the previous evening. A cold dread had clutched at Eothain's chest as he recalled the casual way Ceorl had sat beside the lad, encouraging him to drink from the tankard he had filled for him. Dear gods, what was he thinking? That one rider would spike the drink of another for harm? Such a thing was beyond even imagining. And yet… Ceorl's dark expression when Edric had voiced a protest at his appointment drifted across Eothain's memory. Ceorl certainly had reason to dislike the boy, but was that reason enough to seek such a violent revenge?

His thoughts drifted to the queen, her beautiful face pale, her expression strained. Something odd was definitely going on. If only he knew what it was.

"Master Eothain?" the rider beside him addressed him cautiously. "Forgive me for disturbing your reverie, but are we not to ride north-east?"

Eothain glanced behind him and saw that Edoras was no longer in sight. "Not immediately," he said, setting his mind on the course of action that had teased him ever since the gates closed behind him. Disloyalty and disobedience, his mind whispered, as he once again faced south. He pushed the thought away forcefully. Something had to be done. Had to be said.

The rider frowned. "But surely the First Marshall…"

"I know what the First Marshall commanded," he snapped. "And his orders will be carried out. First, though, we will ride this way."

"May I ask why?" the rider asked.

"Because we may be fortunate enough to cross the path of King Elessar in this direction, and I feel the need to pay my respects to him before spending the winter far beyond the reach of any communication from either Edoras or Gondor."

-------------------------------------

"Well, if this isn't a welcome sight," Elfhelm said as he stepped indoors, his arms laden with firewood. His gaze rested on Eomer, who was at the table spooning oatmeal into his mouth with obvious enjoyment. Sitting beside Eomer was Lothiriel. She was feeding milk-soaked bread to the youngest of Breda's children, and for the first time in days her expression was relaxed. The three of them made a pretty picture, and he couldn't help but think that it was high time his king set about producing a family of his own. Lothiriel glanced up, and smiled happily, and he winked at her, before turning his attention back to the king. "Dare I ask if you left any breakfast for the rest of us?"

"There's plenty for all of you," Breda replied, before Eomer could swallow his mouthful and comment. She reached for another bowl as Elfhelm deposited his burden on the hearth. "Thank you for doing that."

"It is the least I could do to repay your hospitality," he replied, taking the now full bowl from her.

Eomer turned his head towards Breda. "I too am truly indebted to you."

She smiled and squeezed his shoulder. "It is thanks enough that you are enjoying my oatmeal. Although my husband partakes, it is probably his least favourite meal and he never fails to grimace at the sight of it."

"It's delicious," Eomer declared, scraping up the last mouthful. He leaned back in his chair and gave a satisfied sigh as Breda cleared away the bowl and put a mug of tea in its place.

Not wanting to disturb the domestic harmony by trying to find room at the table, Elfhelm headed outside to eat. He had barely settled himself against the outer wall of the house when Erika turned the corner carrying a bucket of fresh milk.

"Good morning," she said, cheerfully.

"Good morning. Breda has hot oatmeal on the fire if you've not eaten already."

"Indeed I have not," she said, heading into the house.

To his surprise, she returned moments later with a bowl in her hand. "May I join you?"

"Of course."

She sat next to him, poked at her oatmeal, and then gave a soft chuckle.

"May I ask the reason for your amusement?"

Her eyes were alight with mischief. She bent her head towards his in a conspiratorial manner. "I believe the king is showing off in front of the princess."

"Is he now?" He was uncertain that Eomer would appreciate being the subject of gossip.

"He is attempting to demonstrate his ability to coax an unwilling child to eat."

Elfhelm almost choked on a mouthful on oatmeal. "Eomer is feeding the baby?"

Erika laughed again. "I believe I used the phrase attempting to. Unfortunately the infant is not aware that one should show respect for the King of Rohan and that spitting food onto his chest is somewhat impolite."

He could not help but join in her laughter. Eomer's skill with a difficult horse was probably unparalleled in all of Rohan. He was no doubt discovering, though, that a young human was much more of a handful than any horse he'd ever encountered. However, he was glad that the king was momentarily engaged in something other than worry for his kingdom. Being strong enough to leave his sick bed for breakfast was good, but he still had his doubts that Eomer would be strong enough to ride for Edoras the next day. That, however, was a problem for the morning.

"She would make him a good wife," he observed as their attention turned back to breakfast.

"That she would," Erika agreed. "Although she may need to educate him in the ways of small children."

They ate in silence for a few minutes, enjoying the feel of the sun on their faces and the warmth of the food in their bellies.

"What of you, Elfhelm?" Erika asked. "Do you have a family?"

He hesitated, the subject a difficult one. When finally he spoke, he tried to make it sound like he was simply reciting historical fact, but the words still reverberated with echoes of the pain. "My wife died in childbirth nigh on ten years ago."

"I'm sorry," she said, setting her bowl on the ground.

"It was a long time ago."

Silence drifted between them again. Elfhelm watched the chickens scratching in the dirt across the yard. The dog came out of its kennel, yawned widely and then settled in the sun. The familiar sound of a horse's neigh came from the stable. Abruptly he found himself envying Breda's husband. A home rather than a camp. A family eagerly awaiting his return from market. It seemed an attractive alternative to war and the constant of Rohan.

Erika's voice was gentle. "Ten years is a long time for a man to be alone."

He turned to look at her. "How did you know I'd been alone?"

She shrugged lightly. "Perhaps the recognition of one lonely person by another." She held his gaze. "My betrothed died at Pelennor. Barely a day has gone by when I have not missed him. I have even…" She hesitated, clearly seeking the strength to continue. "There have been times when I have not wanted to go on. Days when it has seemed too difficult to even draw breath into my lungs."

The thought of her taking her own life horrified him. "Erika…" He couldn't find the words. Didn't know how to express what he was feeling.

She gave a small smile. "It's alright, Elfhelm. I believe…" She hesitated again. "I believe that somehow meeting the king, seeing that Rohan has a future, somehow it has made me begin to think that I too can have a future. Perhaps even one day a husband and children." She reached out, took his hand in her own and gently squeezed his fingers. "Ten years, Elfhelm. That's a long time for a man to be alone."

He looked away, confused by her words. Confused by his feelings. Then far off in the distance something caught his attention. He raised his free hand to shade his eyes.

"Elfhelm?"

"Riders!" he said, yanking his hand free and scrambling to his feet. "Into the house. Now!" He peered towards the horizon, trying to judge the speed and number of the approaching horsemen, and then he turned and hurried after her. "Eomer! Riders are coming. And I suspect they are not friends of ours."

The king jerked away from Lothiriel, who was dabbing a damp cloth against his baby-stained tunic. His expression turned grim, but there was also a glimmer of anticipation in his eyes. "How many?"

"A small group. Perhaps four or five." Elfhelm dropped his hand to the hilt of his sword. "They are riding hard and fast. We have but a few minutes before they will be upon us."

Eomer swore, and then glanced around the room, his gaze taking in Breda and the children. "Is there somewhere you can hide?"

She nodded as she picked up the baby and clutched him tightly to her chest. "The orc hole. It's beneath the table."

"Orc hole?" Elfhelm asked.

"A cellar beneath the floor. My husband dug it to give us somewhere to hide the little ones should orcs ever come to our home."

Eomer was already on his feet, pulling ineffectively at the table. Elfhelm moved to help him and was surprised to discover the table was no where near as heavy as Eomer's exertion had implied. He glanced at the king, noting afresh the shadows beneath his eyes, the pinched cheeks and his pale, sun-starved skin. The physical trauma the king had suffered over the past few days was not easily remedied by a few brief hours of rest and a bowl of oatmeal.

With the table moved, they quickly cleared away the reeds that covered the ground, revealing a wooden trap door. Elfhelm pulled it open and peered into the dark space beneath. He glanced at Eomer. "There is room enough."

Eomer nodded, and then clicked his fingers at the women, who were now standing together. "Quickly now."

Breda didn't hesitate. Gathering up the children she ushered them down the small wooden ladder that provided access, and then followed them, the babe still in her arms.

"Lothiriel, you next." Eomer beckoned her.

She shook her head. "No. I can fight."

Eomer repeated his beckoning gesture with impatience. "I do not doubt it, and it may yet come that you will need to, but for now, please… do as I ask." In response, Lothiriel merely tilted her chin defiantly.

Elfhelm interjected hurriedly, pre-empting further protest. "Please, my lady, there is no time for discussion." And certainly no time for an argument between the royal houses of Dol Amroth and Rohan.

She glanced at him and then turned her gaze back to Eomer, frustration on her face. "Very well, since his Majesty commands it." Stiffly she moved past him and made her way down the ladder.

Erika met Elfhelm's gaze as both men turned towards her. "May the gods keep you safe," she said softly. Her concern for him was bittersweet, but he had no time to think of that now.

"Quickly," he said, holding out his hand to help her onto the ladder. He glanced over his shoulder at the king. "You too, Eomer."

Indignation flashed across Eomer's face. "You think I should hide like a woman?"

"I think you've only just risen from the sick bed." He looked to Erika who had not yet descended the ladder. "Tell him."

To his surprise, though, she shook her head. "It is not for me to command his Majesty."

"What?" Elfhelm was hurt by her lack of support. "Have you not frequently done so?"

"When his life was threatened by poison and fever, yes. As a healer I had such a right. Now that threat is no more, it is not for me to question his Majesty's wisdom in choosing to stand against an enemy."

Eomer shot Elfhelm a look of rueful triumph. "It is good to know that someone actually remembers I'm still king."

Erika's expression was calm. "I do not think any of us ever forgot that, Sire." She paused, shifting her attention to Elfhelm as she quietly added, "Of course, were his Majesty to seek my advice, I might be required to voice my concern that his strength is not fully returned."

"Thank you!" Elfhelm said. "Eomer, please…"

"No!" There was anger in Eomer's eyes now. "I will not hide. These men would have celebrated had my sick bed become a death bed. I will face them."

The sound of horses' hooves in the yard reached Elfhelm. "They're here," he hissed. "Please, Eomer."

Eomer glared at him, and then nodded to the trapdoor. "Close it."

Still Elfhelm delayed. The brief exertion with the table and rug had brought a glistening sheen to the king's face, and although he was upright he was gripping the back of a chair for support. This was madness. Whether Eomer wanted to hear it or not, Elfhelm owed it to him to speak the truth. "Look at yourself, Eomer. You can barely stand unaided. How do you expect to wield a sword?"

With a grunt, Eomer pushed himself away from the chair. "I will manage well enough." He held Elfhelm's gaze for a long moment, but then looked away. "Close the door, Elfhelm."

There was a raw edge of appeal in Eomer's voice that cut into Elfhelm and made it impossible for him to argue further. Silently cursing the king's stubborn pride, he did as he was told. Both men started as a man's voice shouted from the yard. "We know you're here. Give yourselves up and we may show mercy to those who are sheltering you."

"The table. Quickly," Eomer said, but he made no move to help. Apparently he'd given up pretending he had the strength to pull a piece of solid oak furniture around.

"Come out!" the voice shouted again.

"Now what?" Elfhelm asked as he straightened up.

"Now we fight." Eomer swayed like a drunk as he turned to the door.

Elfhelm leapt across the room and slid his arm around the king's waist, keeping him upright. He'd fought many a battle beside this man, often odds that seemed weighted against them. Never before, though, had he believed that the possible outcome rested solely on his shoulders.


	22. Confrontation and deception

**Chapter 22 – Deception and confrontation**

Warning: This chapter contains battle-style violence.

_A/N: Thank you yet again for all your lovely reviews, encouragement and comments. You guys are great._

Selred waited for a response to his call. He sat confidently astride his horse, sword drawn and flanked by his men, two to either side of him. He knew his quarry was here. He could virtually smell them - particularly the sweetness of the women. The house was silent, though. The only noise was that of a dog barking loudly at him and a pair of chickens clucking indignantly in the shadows. His gaze moved from the house to the outbuildings and stables. They were no doubt hiding. He liked that idea. Liked that they were afraid of him. So they should be. He was death.

He called again. Still no reply.

He considered this for a moment, and then turned to the two men on his left. "Search the stable and barn. Be careful. That rider is dangerous and the woman can also use a blade." He dismounted as they moved away, glancing at the other two men. "You two come with me. We'll take the house."

Slowly. Cautiously. Footsteps silent, he approached the door. A prickle between his shoulder blades was a reminder that the rider could be hiding somewhere, an arrow at the ready. His fingers wrapped around the cold metal of the door latch. Twist and then a steady push. The interior was cool, dark and deserted. Eyes quickly adjusting to the dim light he registered the closed bedroom door to his right. Saw the loft space to his left. A quick gesture directed one of his companions to the ladder leaning against the edge of the platform. Another gesture set a guard on the main door. Finally he turned towards the bedroom.

The clash of steel on steel rang out. He spun round. Saw the glint of a sword high above his head. A cry rang out. His man. Falling from the ladder. Suddenly the rider from the woods was in the room, crouched low and dangerous.

"Kill him!" he shrieked.

Both of his men were moving now. Closing in. Two onto one in an enclosed space? The rider was already dead. A frustrated cry filled the air. Selred jerked. Saw the rider's eyes dart to the bedroom door as he fended off first one, then the other of his men. He recognised the look. Knew immediately that he would find the rest of his quarry behind the closed door. As his men found their balance and once again attacked, he strode to the bedroom door and yanked it open.

-----------------

Two onto one. Elfhelm had faced worse. Fighting in the enclosed confines of the house was a new experience, though. He sidestepped a slashing blow. Collided with the table. Gods. Pain flared through his hip as the hard corner bit deep. He spun left. Met steel with steel. Spun right. Deflected another blow, and stumbled as the bucket of milk rocked against his ankle. Two opponents and every damn piece of furniture in the room. That wasn't quite such a fair fight.

Thrust. Parry. Block. Thrust. He darted around the table. Was followed by two swords. Another rapid exchange of blows. He glanced past his attackers. Saw the bedroom door was closed, and that there was now there was no sign of Selred.

He parried a forceful series of sharp, jabbing attacks. Tried to manoeuvre his opponent into a corner. Swore as he was forced back towards the heat of the fire. He needed to end this.

Now.

---------------------

Selred's felt a tremor of excitement at the sight that greeted his eyes. He'd expected to find the women. Would have been thrilled to have done so, but this… This was far better. Lying on the bed was his elusive quarry. Eomer, once proud King of Rohan. Still alive, although judging from his harsh breathing, barely so. A low moan escaped the king, and delivered an almost sexual rush of satisfaction to Selred. Galwyn's poison was clearly working its evil.

"Please," the king whispered, his tone agonised. "Please, no more."

Selred stepped nearer. This was far better than he could ever have hoped for. He was in time to witness the king's death after all. The body on the bed suddenly convulsed, and a harsh groan tore from the king's throat.

Another step bought Selred close enough to look down at the tortured face, pale gold in the light of the single lantern. He felt nothing but contempt for the man lying before him. Galwyn was right. The country was better off without a man who could be so easily ensnared by a woman and a few whispered words of magic. That he owed this man his loyalty as a citizen of Rohan meant nothing to him. The war had ravaged the country. There was little lying ahead except years of hardship as its people slowly rebuilt their lives. He had no patience for such a future. Instead, with the money Galwyn had promised him, he would live a life of comfort in Gondor.

"No more," Eomer murmured, his face twisting into a grimace. "No more."

"Would you have me end your life, Eomer, Son of Eomund?" he asked unable to keep the satisfaction from his voice. "Is that what you want?"

Eomer's lips moved, but the words were too faint for Selred to hear.

"Speak up, man," Selred said. "Beg me to put you out of your misery like the sick dog you are."

--------------------

Beneath the floor, Lothiriel sat with her hand clasped in Erika's. The darkness was total, but with the blindness came an acute awareness of the noises from above their heads. Every footfall. Every clash of steel.

She bit her lip in frustration. This was foolishness. To sit in the dark when she could be fighting. Never again would she do such a thing. She should've told Eomer…

A pained grunt reached her ears. Please. Don't let that be him. He had suffered enough. And Rohan needed her king. She felt Erika's fingers move. Realised she was crushing them. She forced herself to relax. Erika squeezed her hand in silent acknowledgement and gratitude.

Above their heads a guttural cry sounded. Then came the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the ground. Erika's grip was now as tight as her own had just been.

Was someone dead? And if so, who?

She closed her eyes, but the darkness had already penetrated her soul. Eomer, dear Gods, please protect him.

-----------------

Sweat ran down Elfhelm's back as he pulled his sword from the gut of the fallen man. The other attacker backed away, not so brave now he was alone. That's right, traitor. Look death in the eye.

For Rohan. For the king! Elfhelm leapt forward, a war cry tearing from his lungs as he launched his attack. His opponent faltered, and then swung his sword up, parrying the blows. Pain jarred up Elfhelm's arm as their weapons clashed - once, twice, three times. This man had the advantage in both weight and height. Did he have the skill though?

No. Elfhelm forced him backwards, away from the fire, but he couldn't make him turn. Couldn't yet clear a way to the bedroom door and Eomer. Damnation. He had protested the plan. Had begged Eomer not to take such a risk. Surely by now, it should be done? He glanced once more at the bedroom door. And in doing so, gave his attacker the opportunity to strike at him.

He leapt back. The blade hissed through air, a mere hair's breadth from his tunic. Focus, man. He launched another attack. Sparks ignited as the blades connected. The air was rank with the smell of sweat. His lungs burned with exertion. And still his opponent refused to yield. Refused to die.

Suddenly daylight flooded the room. The outer door was open, and two burly figures stood silhouetted against the light. There was a moment of shock as both sides took in the situation, and then they stepped into the house. Elfhelm's heart sank as he prepared to enter afresh into battle. Three against one. The odds were now far from favourable.

-----------------------

Another spasm racked the king. He groaned softly, and then fell quiet again. Slowly he opened his eyes, and fixed his gaze on Selred's face.

"Do you recognise me, Eomer, Son of Eomund? How does it feel to look upon the face of the one who will bring an end to the once proud House of Eorl."

Eomer stared up at him, but he didn't speak. His brow was furrowed now, but it was hard to tell if it was from confusion or disbelief.

What sweet pleasure this was. Selred was torn between savouring the situation and bringing it to the ultimate climax. He imagined the sight of Eomer's blood staining his sword blade a deep crimson, but then considered how much sweeter it would be to add to the man's torment before opening his veins. "I will have the women," he hissed. "Both of them." He smiled as Eomer's jaw tightened. "They will pay dearly for aiding you. Particularly that piece of fancy Gondorian womanhood. I'm going to enjoy riding her. She'll be so saddle sore by the time I'm done, she'll beg…"

"Bastard." Eomer ground the word out.

"Yes. I am." Selred relished the anguish his words had caused. "But perhaps if I were to hear you beg, I might spare her. Untouched, she would no doubt be worth a pretty penny or two in ransom." Once again Eomer's face contorted with pain. Selred watched and waited. When at last the spasm passed, he spoke again. "I can end it for you. Quickly and cleanly. All you have to do is ask."

"No." Eomer's voice was barely a whisper, all strength gone now.

"Yes." Selred leaned forward, his tone persuasive. "What is the point of fighting? We both know how this will end. Why not spare yourself more pain and protect the women?"

"You lie."

"I give you my word." Triumph cut through him as he saw confusion on the king's face. Clearly the man was so racked with pain he couldn't think straight. There was no other explanation as to why Eomer would even consider such a worthless promise. Or perhaps it was simply a way to persuade himself he was being noble, rather than a pitiful coward who desired only a swift end to his pathetic life.

"Your word?" Eomer murmured, his voice barely audible.

"My word. Beg me to end your life and I will not touch the women."

There a long moment during which the only sound in the room was Eomer's harsh breathing. Was he even aware of where he was any more? Did he still know who tormented him?

"Well?" Selred demanded.

Eomer's lips moved, but no words came forth.

"Speak up, man. I can't hear you."

"Please," Eomer managed to say.

"Please what?" Selred leaned forward. Power. It was exhilarating. Intoxicating. To know that the life of another rested in his hands. To offer death and have it seen as showing mercy. "Please what?" he repeated.

"I… want…" Each word was forced out between a pain-filled breath.

"Yes?" Selred leaned even closer, his face now hovering mere inches from Eomer's.

"You… to…"

"Yes?" Selred curled his fingers around the hilt of his sword, anticipating the moment when he would draw the blade against the king's throat.

Eomer sucked in a pained breath, reached weakly out to snag Selred's sleeve with his right hand and drew him nearer still, before finishing his sentence.

"Die, traitor!"

"What?" Selred straightened up, shock hitting him like iced water. Too late he registered a searing pain in his gut. Staggering backwards, he stared in disbelief at the blade that now protruded from his belly. No, this wasn't happening. He jerked his head up and watched in stunned horror as Eomer threw back the sheet and swung off the bed. No. He was supposed to be dying. This couldn't be. "You…" he gasped out, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. "No. You're…"

"Poisoned?" Eomer offered coldly. "Sorry to disappoint you." The subterfuge created a sour taste in his mouth, but he knew he had been right; it was the only sensible path left open to him. Much as he might wish to deny it, a fair fight against Selred would have had only one outcome - his own death. Now, though, anger at what he'd just heard gave his poison-weakened body fresh strength. He crossed the short distance between himself and Selred, wrapped his hand around the hilt of the dagger he'd just plunged into the man's body and pulled it free. Selred screamed, clutched at the open wound in his stomach, but somehow managed to stay on his feet. "That was for all you've done to me," Eomer said. "This is for what you threatened to do to the Princess of Dol Amroth." He thrust the dagger into Selred again, this time aiming the blade at a sharp upward angle. Blood ran down the hilt of the dagger, warm and sticky, as he twisted it into the man's heart.

Selred's eyes bulged. His mouth worked. And then he fell lifelessly to the ground.

For a long moment, Eomer simply stared down at the body at his feet. The rush of adrenaline had gone as quickly as it had come, leaving him shaking and weak. His stomach roiled at what he had just done. Entrapment. Murder. That Selred deserved it, seemed irrelevant. He'd never killed other than in the bloodlust of battle. He didn't want to do so again, even though he knew the same rule of kill or be killed had applied. It just didn't… feel the same.

The sound of crashing furniture beyond the bedroom door snatched at his attention, bringing a swift end to his musing. With as much haste as he dared, he bent over Selred's lifeless body and retrieved the dagger. Turning to the bed he pulled his sword from where it had been hidden beneath the bedclothes. The weapon felt heavy in his hand, and he growled in frustration at the fresh reminder of his physical weakness. Another crash came from the main room, and he didn't hesitate any longer. Weak or not, it sounded like Elfhelm needed his help.

---------------------------

It wasn't that they were better swordsman. It was simply that there were three of them and only one of him. Ouch! A blade sliced across the bicep of Elfhlem's right arm, leaving a line of dark red blood in its wake. Not a deep wound, but unwelcome evidence that he was starting to lose this battle. His sword met with another. Grunting he shoved the attacker back, and only just managed to swing his blade back up in time to prevent a jabbed thrust from contacting with his ribs.

"Give up, old man, and we'll kill you swiftly," one of his opponents taunted.

Old man? He was outraged at the suggestion. It was true that he was no longer in the bloom of youth, but to call him an old man? Indignation gave him a momentary spurt of energy and he launched a fresh volley of blows, taking one of the three by surprise. His own blade bit into flesh, and he leaned forward, putting his weight behind the thrust. There was a moment of resistance as his sword met bone then, almost instantly, he was rewarded with full penetration. His attacker's eyes widened in pain and fear. Incomprehensible words bubbled from the man's mouth along with blood-flecked froth. And then he began to topple backwards.

Elfhelm yanked at his sword, trying to pull it free. Damnation. The hilt was slick with his own blood and sweat, and the sudden drag of a lifeless body pulled it from his grasp. His victory over this particular enemy was going to be his undoing. He was now unarmed. Against two men. It was over. His gaze flicked from one to the other. Which would it be? Who would take his life? He backed away from their sneering faces. Felt the heat of the fire against his calves. Never had he imagined he would die at the end of a Rohirrim blade. Nor had he believed he would die trying to save the king from the same fate. He took another step back. Realised he had nowhere to retreat too. Tilting his chin, he prepared to step into the halls of his fathers.

A soft thud sounded, and the man to his right jerked as though a puppet master had suddenly pulled at his strings. His sword clattered to the floor. His other attacker hesitated, the killing blow he had been preparing to deliver suddenly frozen in mid-arc. What the hell?

"Two onto one hardly seemed fair."

Elfhelm's gaze swung towards the sound of the familiar voice. Eomer! The king was standing unsteadily in the doorway of the bedroom, his face a grim mask of concentration. But very much alive.

Realisation of what had just happened hit Elfhelm as the man to his right toppled forward. Eomer's dagger was embedded at the top of his spine - a single lethal throw from the king had killed him. It was a second chance. A reprieve. Elfhelm whirled into action, ducking beneath his attacker's blade. In one smooth move he scooped up the dropped sword, continued to spin as he came up on the other side of his opponent while simultaneously drawing the blade across the man's midriff. Blood spurted as the sword all but cut the man in two; then his body dropped lifelessly to the floor.

"Elfhelm?" Eomer sounded breathless. "Are you alright?"

He nodded wordlessly, his brain desperately trying to catch up with the action of the past few moments. Was he alright? Yes. Amazingly enough. Yes. In barely a blink of an eye he'd gone from believing he was going to die to staring down at the lifeless bodies of his enemies and the very alive body of his king. He was definitely all right.

"You're bleeding." Eomer gestured at Elfhelm's blood-stained sleeve.

"A mere scratch." He swallowed hard. "You saved my life. Thank you."

Eomer slumped against the doorframe, a tight smile on his face. "You have saved mine more times than I can count these past few days. Consider it payment only in part."

Heat burned his cheeks at the suggestion that the king was indebted to him. "You owe me nothing, Eomer." He crossed the room, intending to help him to a seat. "You look awful."

"I'm fine." With obvious effort Eomer pushed himself upright. He glanced over his shoulder, into the bedroom, then shut the door as he stepped unsteadily into the main room.

"Seldred?" Elfhelm asked.

"Dead." Eomer spoke the word without emotion. He gazed round at the carnage. "We should release the women, but let's get these bodies out of here first. I don't want Breda's children seeing their home desecrated in such a manner."

Elfhelm nodded. He had nightmares enough of his own. If he could spare the children from suffering the same, he would gladly do so. Besides, there was scarcely room to move the table from over the hiding place with four dead bodies sprawled on the ground. Eomer helped him drag the first body out into the yard, but as he glanced at the king he knew he had to once again risk his annoyance by fussing over him. Eomer's skin was ashen and Elfhelm could tell that nothing other than sheer bloody-minded grit was keeping him upright.

"Rest a moment," he said, squeezing Eomer's shoulder. I can manage alone."

"The women…"

"Will not come to any harm from waiting a few moments longer for release."

"I suppose not," Eomer said. He wanted to protest, but the trembling in his legs was warning enough that his body had reached the limit of its endurance. He turned away from the house as Elfhelm headed inside once more. Tilting his face, he relished the warmth of the sun on his face. It had been too long since he last savoured such a simple pleasure. Too long had he been a prisoner - first held physically captive by Galwyn and then imprisoned by the poison in his blood. Freedom was sweet. As was the knowledge that Selred was dead.

He opened his eyes again and took in the sight of the five riderless horses in the yard. They would be able to make good speed to Edoras with a horse each. He looked critically at each one, identifying its strengths and weaknesses. The bay looked like it would suit Lothiriel. The small chestnut would be ideal for Erika provided… He froze as he suddenly realised that the horses weren't the only new additions to the yard. Puzzled and somewhat concerned he turned towards the house, intent on getting Elfhelm to take a look at what he'd just seen. He'd barely taken a stride when he felt the sharp prick of a sword between his shoulder blades.

"On your knees - now," a deep male voice rumbled behind him. "Don't try anything foolish because I will not hesitate to run you through."


	23. Revelations

_A/N: Hugs to everyone who reviewed the previous chapter. My apologies for the evil cliff-hanger. I simply couldn't resist. Now to find out who has a sword to Eomer's throat…_

**Chapter 22 – Revelations**

With every step of his horse, Aragorn felt his heart grow heavier. At first he had simply put it down to his sorrow at the loss of Eomer. Now, though, he was beginning to suspect the weight had another source. He shifted in his saddle, trying to dislodge the intangible discomfort, but it clung to him like a burr. Damnation. What was it that made his spirit suffer such unease?

He looked towards the horizon and was startled to see a gathering cloud of dust. Moments later one of his scouts arrived.

"Riders of the Mark approach, Sire."

He nodded. A welcoming party? This far from Edoras? It was unlikely. But why else would riders be leaving the city right before the funeral of their king. He straightened up in the saddle, brushed some of the dust from his clothes, and tried to hide the weariness that gnawed at his bones. A few moments later a familiar face rode into view.

"Hail, Elessar, King of Gondor!"

"Hail Marshall Eothain," he replied, raising his hand to bring his people to a halt. "What draws you and your eored from Edoras during this season of mourning?"

Bitterness flickered in Eothain's eyes. "I fear all is not well in Edoras, Sire. I would speak of such matters with you, if I may."

"Of course." Elessar turned to his steward. "We will rest a while. Do we have enough provisions to offer the Marshall and his men food and drink?"

"Aye, your Majesty. Let it not be said that the Royal House of Gondor cannot offer hospitality even in the midst of a desert." His gaze took in the dry, grassy plain they were transversing.

Elessar smiled, amused by the man's pride. "See to it then." He swung off his horse, and waited patiently as Eothain dismounted. Then he gripped the man by the arm in a friendly greeting and led him away from the crowd, calling over his shoulder as he did so. "Faramir, come. You may wish to hear this."

They settled on a slight incline some distance to the right of the Gondorian train. Elessar sat on the ground, stretching his legs in front, his weight on his elbows. The relaxed posture was at odds with the knot of tension in his stomach. "So, tell me what is going on."

Eothain huffed out a breath, and then in short, emotionless sentences told the king all that he knew. Elessar listened intently, reaching out to rest a sympathetic hand on Faramir's shoulder as the Marshall described Eowyn's distress at the loss of Eomer. When Eothain reached the end of his tale, Elessar gazed across the plain in the direction of the Golden Hall. The facts of the situation were helpful, but the darkness in the pit of his stomach had still not been explained. He gave Eothain a penetrating look. "Now tell me what it is that you suspect."

"Your Majesty?"

"I would know your thoughts, Eothain. Your suspicions. The dark dreams that haunt you in your bed."

The Marshall flinched. "You would have me gossip?"

"I would have your opinion on the happenings in Edoras, for my own heart has become more heavily burdened with each passing league."

Eothain clenched his jaw tightly, but then nodded. "Very well. Rumours abound that the Lady Eowyn has been driven mad by her grief. Although I do not doubt that she mourns the loss of her brother - as do we all - I do not believe this to be so. She has forever had an inner strength, the like of which few are blessed to possess. That she would allow her own hurt to come before her duty to Rohan…" Eothain shook his head. "I do not believe she would allow that. I have no proof of what I am about to say, but since you ask for my thoughts, for my opinion… I believe that while Ceorl professes he wants only what is good for Rohan, he in fact seeks only that which is good for himself. He is not only ambitious, he is ruthless in that ambition. It has become clear to many of us that he has found a way to influence the queen into acting on his behalf in all manner of things. I fear for her, your Majesty."

"Faramir." Elessar spoke the name softly as he saw the prince's hand drop to the hilt of his sword.

"I will kill any man that harms her," Faramir said, eyes blazing.

"And I would aid you in that task," Elessar said. He turned his gaze back to Eothain. "Do you have any idea what hold Ceorl has on Eowyn?"

Eothain shook his head. "I have pondered this for since departing Edoras, but to no avail."

Faramir caught Elessar's eye. "Théoden-King was held in thrall by Saruman."

He considered the unspoken question for a long moment. Was it possible that the dark arts were at work here? That would certainly explain the heaviness he felt in his spirit. Yet somehow the explanation did not fit right. It would take a great deal of magic power to control a strong spirit such as Eowyn. With the destruction of the one ring there was no longer a focus for such power. It was far more likely that any influence over her was human in origin. He shook his head, more from confusion than any real attempt to refute Faramir's suggestion.

"I have no answer," he said. "Eothain, we will keep our eyes and our senses open in Edoras. If Ceorl does have a hold over the queen, rest assured we will not only find it, we will also break it."

Eothain bowed his head. "For that I will be forever in your debt."

Elessar climbed to his feet, his gaze turning once more towards Edoras. A shiver rippled through him and once again he wondered if his instinct was not perhaps correct, that dark magic was at work. If that was so, then he would have to face it as best he could. There wasn't anything he could do about it right here and now. He turned his attention back to Eothain. "Come and eat. You too, Faramir."

"Ceorl has ordered me to the West Fold," Eothain said. "I should not tarry. Already I have bought my men on a diversion."

"I take it this order does not sit well with you, Marshall."

'Indeed not!"

"Then perhaps an alternative order might be more to your taste? One issued by the King of Gondor maybe?" Elessar clapped the man on the back as they headed back to the mass of horses and men.

"Your Majesty, I swore an oath…" Eothain began uncertainly.

"Ah yes, Rohirric oaths," Elessar interrupted as though the idea was novel. "Tell me, Eothain, is the oath Eomer took on behalf of Rohan still binding on his people until such a time as the new queen may choose to withdraw it? The oath he took saying that Rohan and her people will come to the aid of Gondor if ever such aid is requested."

'Aye."

"And under such an oath, would you not be required to follow an order from the King of Gondor in precedence to one issued by a Marshall of the Mark?"

A slow smile spread across Eothain's face. "I believe that is true, your Majesty."

"Good. Then let us talk about where you might be ordered to go while we eat."

---------------------

Elfhelm backed out of the house, dragging the second dead body through the doorway. Dropping the man next to his comrade in the cool shadow of the house, he turned to check on Eomer. Mordor's fire! His hand dropped to the hilt of his sword at the sight of the king kneeling in the dust, a blade at his throat.

"He'll be dead before you draw it," the figure behind Eomer warned.

Fingers itching, Elfhelm moved his hand away, raising both arms in surrender. "Who are you? And what do you want?" His anger flared afresh that yet another danger faced them. Curse the fates. Had Eomer not been through enough?

"Those are the questions I require you to answer," the man snarled. "Come out of the shadow. I would see your face so that I can know if there is deceit in your words."

Slowly Elfhelm did as he was told, his gaze never moving from the blade that threatened the king. Eomer looked uncomfortable yet calm. Perhaps, though, the latter was due to being far too weary to care that he was once more in a life-threatening situation. His hands were behind his back, possibly tied. Elfhelm couldn't be sure. It did not really matter. Any move on the king's part was likely to result in injury. Or worse.

Elfhelm stepped forward. Blinked as the sun hit his face. And heard a shocked gasp.

"Eomer?" He lurched forward, fearing the worst. Drew to a halt as he realised the king was unharmed and that the gasp had come from the swordsman.

"L…lord Elfhelm?" the man stuttered.

"Aye."

To his surprise the man abruptly sheathed his sword. "Forgive me. Had I realised it was you…" His gaze swung wildly - taking in the dead bodies and then shifting to the house. "What has happened here? Where is my wife? My children?"

"Anlaf?" Elfhelm asked, suddenly realising the man had to be Breda's husband. A frightened nod confirmed it. "Your wife and children are quite safe." He saw the man slump with relief, and he took the opportunity to move quickly to help the king to his feet. "Are you alright, your Majesty?"

"It seems that the gods are determined to strip me of all pride," Eomer replied ruefully. He attempted to brush the mud from the knees of his pants, but simply succeeded in spreading the dirt up his thighs.

The man's eyes, which had shown his relief, now reflected shocked horror. "Your Majesty?" He dropped abruptly to his knees, head bowed. "Oh no. What have I done? Eomer-King, please, can you forgive such an insult against your person?"

Eomer snorted. "Get up, man. I would not be much of a king if I took offence at a man seeking to protect his family and his home. No harm has been done except to the cleanliness of my clothes, and if you look close you'll see that they are in fact yours." He turned to Elfhelm. "Bring the other two bodies out and let's reunite this man with his family. Then we can tell him of all that has unfolded."

It took Anlaf and Elfhelm a few brief moments to rid the house of the remaining bodies. Yanking up the trapdoor, Anlaf helped the women up the small ladder. As Breda emerged he pulled her into a fierce embrace. "When I came back… found these two…" His voice cracked. "I feared you were dead. You and the children."

"Hush," she murmured, pressing her lips against his. "We are all well. No harm has been done." Her eyes darted around the room and she flinched as she saw each smear of blood. "At least, no harm that cannot be wiped away."

"Elfhelm, you are bleeding." Erika said, the moment she stepped foot onto the rush-strewn floor. "Come. Let me see to your arm." Eomer smiled as the Marshall attempted to fob her off. Elfhelm might be able to command a hundred men, but in Erika he had more than met his match. In no time at all, she had him stripped to the waist and was fussing over him in a manner that was a fair cry from his own brusque treatment at her hands. It very much seemed as though the Marshall had won a place in the young healer's heart in addition to saving her life.

Suddenly he realised Lothiriel was staring at him. He began to smile. Was about to make some flippant comment. But the look on her face made his stomach flip-flop. It was so… Confused? Hurt? Relieved? No, none of those. And yet all of them. There were simply no words to describe it. Abruptly she turned away and began to tend to the fire. For a moment he simply stood and stared at her back. No. He had to know what he had done to make her look… like that.

"Lothiriel?" He'd crossed the room and caught her arm without even realising he'd done so. As he turned her towards him, his stomach did a second wrenching twist. Her cheeks were wet. By the gods, she was crying.

Embarrassment flushed her face. "I am glad to see you are unharmed, your Majesty."

He flinched at the formality of her words. Almost nodded curtly and left her to whatever mysterious emotion assailed her, but something told him that if he did, he would regret it for the rest of his life. Slowly he raised his right hand, cupped her cheek and wiped away the wetness. "Why the tears?"

Her smile was rueful. "You will think me foolish."

"Never," he replied with a gentle vehemence.

She hesitated, her eyes studying him as though she would read his soul. Finally, with the softest of sighs she spoke. "Three times now I have feared for your life. It seems that each time, the event grows more distressing… and the relief that I feel seeing you alive and well…" She trailed off. Dark eyes holding his, her lashes damp with tears. For him.

It was more than he could bear. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers. For an instant she stiffened - no doubt shocked by his complete disregard for etiquette and formality - but then he felt her soften again. Felt her respond to him. All coherent thought departed from his brain. He wrapped his arms around her and deepened the kiss. By the gods, she felt good. The touch of her lips, the scent of her hair, the press of her body against his. She was intoxicating. A man could drown in her kiss.

The sound of someone clearing their throat rather pointedly made it through the haze that Eomer was caught in. He broke the kiss, turned and found Erika, Elfhelm and Breda watching him with amusement. Only Anlaf seemed to think nothing of the fact that he had just engaged in an act that his advisors would no doubt have labelled as a huge breech of diplomatic decorum. He glanced at Lothiriel and realised that he didn't care what his advisors thought. Kissing the daughter of the Prince of Dol Amroth had been the best thing that had happened to him in a very, very long time. What was more, if he had anything to do about it, he intended to kiss her a lot more in the future.

He drew in a deep breath and reluctantly released Lothiriel from his embrace, catching hold of her hand as they separated. "I think we all need to sit down and talk."

-------------------

Lothiriel knew she should be paying attention to the conversation, but it was hard to concentrate on plans for the journey to Edoras when her hand was still captured in Eomer's. Not only that, but he'd kissed her. A very passionate kiss that had cascaded through every part of her body, awakening desires that she had not known herself capable of feeling. By the gods, she would give up a great deal to be kissed like that again. To feel his lips pressed to her. His arms wrapped around her. The heat of his body as he moulded himself…

Stop it, woman! Embarrassed by her thoughts, she dragged her attention back to the other occupants of the room. Tried to ignore the fact that Eomer's fingers were still curled around her hand. And that, as a result, the edge of her hand was resting on his thigh. Tried, but largely failed.

She heard Anlaf explain that he'd recognised Elfhelm from the Pelennor Fields. Heard Breda proudly telling Elfhelm that her husband had answered Theoden's call to arms. Was vaguely aware of Eomer voicing gratitude on behalf of all of Rohan, and of Anlaf once again apologising for mistaking the king for a ruffian. Eomer smiled at the description, his lips curving, and once again she was lost.

He'd kissed her. Eomer had kissed her. What did that mean? Did it in fact mean anything at all? After all, he'd embraced Erika on being released from his prison cell. Perhaps it was simply a habit of his to take the nearest woman in his arms on escaping imprisonment or death, and it meant nothing at all. It was no more than a natural relief at being alive, of being free. And yet - how could it be? He hadn't kissed Erika. And he hadn't taken hold of Erika's hand in a way that suggested he had no intention of ever letting her go again. It was not imagination that warmed the back of her hand. It was living flesh. His fingers. His skin.

"What is your opinion, Lothiriel?"

"What?" She realised everyone was looking at her. Waiting.

Eomer squeezed her fingers gently. "Elfhelm seems to be under the impression you will side with him rather than me."

Heat flushed her face. "I'm sorry. I must've drifted off. I have no idea what you're talking about."

"The cart," Elfhelm said.

She turned desperate eyes towards Eomer, hoping he would take pity on her. Amusement lit up his face. "Anlaf has suggested we borrow his cart and travel the rest of the journey to Edoras under the guise of husband and wife." Eomer turned away, fixing Elfhelm with a stern look. "Apparently Elfhelm does not think me strong enough to ride such a distance."

Husband and wife? Heat flushed her cheeks, and for a moment she felt dizzy. She sucked in a sharp breath and berated herself. One kiss that probably meant nothing to him and she was acting like a foolish young maiden with no more brains than a mumakhil.

"Stop being so damned stubborn, Eomer," Elfhelm snapped, apparently weary of protocol. "You know it makes sense. We may have rid ourselves of Selred and his men, but we have no idea how many others may be watching out for us. However, they will no doubt be looking for four riders. If we split up, we stand far more chance of reaching Edoras."

"If we split up, yes, but to travel by cart…"

Lothiriel withdrew her hand from his. It was time she took control of the situation. Or at the very least, control of herself. "I believe you were asking for my opinion?"

"Yes," Eomer said, his brow knitting in puzzlement as she folded her hands in her lap.

She looked at him, saw how pale he was. Saw the fatigue in his eyes; it was so intense it might easily have been mistaken for pain. For the love of the gods, here she was, dilly-dallying with silly notions of romance, when he was barely capable of sitting at the table, let alone thinking straight. "I think this decision can wait until the morrow. You, my Lord, need to rest."

"Indeed," Erika interjected. "That, I believe is one thing on which we can all agree."

Lothiriel smiled as Eomer opened his mouth to protest, but then clearly thought better of it.

He dipped his head in acknowledgement of Erika's words. "It is true that I am… a little weary." He pushed himself to his feet and all but fell back to his seat.

Elfhelm swore colourfully and was round the table in an instant. "Why did you not say something?" he demanded harshly as he slid an arm around Eomer's waist.

A rueful smile tugged at Eomer's lips, and his eyes met Lothiriel's. "I was enjoying… the company."

"Damn stupid fool of a king," Elfhelm muttered under his breath. "To bed with you now and don't even think of rising until the morning. We will bring the evening meal to you." The words were harsh, and Lothiriel doubted if Eomer would have tolerated them from any other man in Rohan. The affection that Elfhelm had for his king was obvious to all, though, and for once Eomer simply gave himself up to the man's care.

As the two men stepped into the bedroom, she realised that Erika and Breda were both looking at her, inquisitive amusement on their faces. Heat raced into her cheeks and she rose swiftly. Before either of them could speak, she grabbed an empty wicker basket and headed for the door. "I thought I might pick some apples. For a pie. For dinner." With that she was out in the yard, and alone with her thoughts. Right now, that was exactly the way she wanted things to be.


	24. Facing one's fears

_A/N: I'm glad you all enjoyed the kiss. Thank you for your lovely reviews. Now on to Edoras…_

**Chapter 28 – Facing one's fears**

Fear. It was a powerful tool and one that Ceorl enjoyed using. He smiled as he saw the young serving girl look up from her task of sweeping the floor of the Golden Hall, her face suddenly wary. Yes girl, look on me and be afraid. She turned away as he passed. Pretended to be deeply engrossed in her work. Was no doubt praying that he would not notice her.

He knew what was whispered about him. The death of the young rider, Edric, had produced exactly the effect he had hoped for. People wondered who would be next. And no one dared to speak a word of dissent to his face. With Eothain gone and his personal guard in place instead of the eored, Edoras was his. All he now needed to do was bury the memory of Eomer along with the body that still lay in the hall, and then take Eowyn as his wife. Soon, very soon, the crown of Rohan would be on his head. His uncle would be revenged. And everything that had once belonged to the House of Eorl would be his.

Almost drunk on the anticipation of power, he strode into his private chambers. Barring the door behind him, he turned to the fire that was burning brightly in the hearth despite the fact it was almost midday and the sun was, for once, blessing Edoras with its warmth. He removed his tunic as he stood before the heat of the flames. There was no point in being overly hot as he waited for Galwyn.

He did not have to wait long. The flames suddenly hissed and spat, and then turned a deep emerald green. His mother's face shimmered in the fire, strangely contorted by the ever shifting pattern.

"Well?" he demanded. "Are they dead?"

Galwyn's expression was dark. "Selred has not yet returned."

"Damn that man. How often have I told you he is not to be trusted? Nor is he competent?"

"There is worse news," Galwyn continued. "The flames of Foresight have failed me."

A shiver ran through Ceorl and he reached for his tunic. His mother's magic was the one thing he relied on. "What do you mean?"

"There is a new light in the land. One that I cannot penetrate."

"I don't understand."

Galwyn sucked in an angry breath. "Dark magic requires dark emotions, Ceorl. You know that as well as I."

"Indeed. Have I not ensured that Edoras is filled with fear?"

"Not all in Rohan are afraid," she retorted. "There is hope. A very strong hope that pains my eyes when I try to look upon it." She hesitated and then added. "Ceorl, it may be that this cur of a king still lives."

"No. That cannot be."

"What other reason could there be for a hope so strong that I cannot see those who came to his aid?"

"No. He was poisoned. You saw to that with your own hand."

"Aye, but one who travelled with him was a healer."

"Surely her skills are no match for yours. She is but a country girl who knows what herbs will soothe a child's fever. And did you not weave a spell into the potion?"

Galwyn's lips twisted before she all but spat the words. "Magic can sometimes be rendered less powerful if the one it is aimed at is guarded by the love of others."

"Love!" Ceorl swore. Turning from the fire he paced the room. "What are you saying? That one of those wretched women has given their heart to him?"

"It is possible," Galwyn replied.

"And because of it he is saved?"

"Again, it is something we have to consider."

"And what of Selred? Was he not supposed to ensure the deaths of all of them?"

Again, Galwyn's lips twisted into a grimace. "As I said, I cannot see. We cannot rely on Selred, Ceorl. You must be prepared."

Ceorl's pacing drew him back to the fire. He glared into it. "Do not fear on that account," he hissed. "If Eomer still lives and is foolish enough to show his face in the Golden Hall, a dozen arrows will pierce his flesh before ever he manages to utter a single word in defence of his throne."

-----------------------

Breakfast at the holding was a brief affair the next morning. Erika was pleased to see that the king had regained some colour in his cheeks. She watched him eat, his determination to return to Edoras and regain control of his kingdom evident in his expression, his stance, even the way he worked his way steadily through his meal.

Across the room, Lothiriel was fussing with the children and apparently trying to avoid the king. That too made Erika smile. She was well aware of the awkwardness that accompanied the early days of a romance. All they needed was some time together and that would soon pass. Even before the king had planted a kiss on the princess that had lasted at least an eternity, it had been clear to anyone with the eyes to see it, that Lothiriel of Dol Amroth and Eomer of Rohan were well matched.

She felt a pang of longing. Not for Eomer, because there was no spark between herself and the king, but rather for the dream she once had of being a wife and a mother, of holding a man in her arms who she loved and who loved her in return. Her gaze drifted to Elfhelm, who was sharpening his sword by the fire. The amber glow of the flames gave a warm tinge to the steely grey-gold of his hair, and softened the weather-beaten lines of his face. Thank the gods he had survived the recent battle for if he had not…

Shocked, she realised where her thoughts were leading. For if he had not, she would have mourned him deeply. Far more deeply than she might have mourned the king. Than perhaps any other man she now knew.

"Erika? Are you alright?" Lothiriel asked.

"What? Oh yes." She realised she was no longer darning the hose in her hands, but instead was gazing stupidly into mid-air. A second realisation hit her. One far more frightening. She cared for Elfhelm. Perhaps even… loved him. Dear gods. How could that be? She stitched furiously for a few moments, trying to deny it. Remembering how she had once believed she would never care for another man again. People had told her time heals, but she had not believed it. Still did not and yet… the feeling, whether it was affection or love, that was a reality. One that had stolen up on her without permission or warning. Finally she could not help but look at Elfhelm once again, bemused by her own reaction to him.

Unaware of her attention he held the blade in front of his face, his keen eyes studying its length. Apparently satisfied he slid it into the scabbard at his side and turned to Eomer. "It is settled then. You and the princess will travel by cart. I will ride ahead and learn what I can of the situation in Edoras."

Clearly a conversation had taken place to which she had not been party. She straightened her back and set aside the hose she was darning. "And what of me?"

Elfhelm met her gaze. "You will stay here. Where it is safe."

The dismissal was like a blow to her stomach, and all thoughts of love and romance vanished. Safe? She knew what that meant. Waiting behind, dying little by little as each day passed without news. No, she was not going to live through such days again. He had no right to make that decision for her. She glared at him as he rose and headed towards the door. He was gone before she managed to find her voice.

She realised the king was watching her, his gaze sympathetic. "Don't think ill of him. He is motivated by concern for you."

"And what of my concern for him?" she snapped. "Or does that count for naught?"

She saw surprise on Eomer's face. Watched him shoot a quick, uncertain glance towards Lothiriel. Men! They had no idea what it was like to be left behind. No idea what it was like to be shoved into a hole beneath the ground where they could hear the sounds of battle but had no way of knowing the outcome. No way of knowing who lived and who died. Safety meant being helpless. And by the gods, she'd had enough of feeling like that. She treated Eomer to a blistering look that would've singed his eyebrows were it actual heat, then turned and stalked from the house.

The yard was crossed in a few long purposeful strides so confident was she as where Elfhelm had gone. Just as she suspected, he was in the stable, saddling his horse. He looked none too pleased to see her. Well, that was too bad. Rarely was she afraid to speak her mind or to fight for that which she wanted. She positioned herself in front of the stall he occupied and crossed her arms over her chest.

"So, you have decided that I should stay here," she said, accusation sharpening her tone like a flint.

His attention was on the girth of the saddle as he replied. "There is no knowing what awaits us in Edoras."

"Pray tell me, Master Elfhelm, what right you think you have to make that decision for me?"

He glanced up at her, clearly surprised at her anger. "There is no need for you to risk yourself further."

"No need?" The gall of the man. She stepped into the stall, the horse providing a barrier between them. "And what do you know of my needs?"

"What?" Now he looked puzzled.

For a moment she thought about explaining, but the look on his face convinced her it would be futile. He was a warrior. How could he possibly understand? Better to simply deal with the situation in a way that he would be familiar with. Action rather than words. "I'm coming with you," she said.

"No you're not." Anger flashed across his face.

She tilted her chin and met his heat with that of her own. "Last time I checked, Master Elfhelm, only two men would have the right to give me orders and expect obedience – my father and my husband. Since I have neither, I am free to do as I wish."

He glared at her. "The king…"

"…has not voiced an opinion. Nor do I believe he will do so unless you choose to interfere." She pinned him with a glare of his own and hoped that she was right in guessing that it was Elfhelm who had suggested she stay and that Eomer had simply gone along with it. When he didn't correct her assumption, she quickly strengthened her position. "Do not go to him, Elfhelm. I will not think well of you if you do."

His gaze was white hot. "Is it so wrong of me to want to keep you safe?"

"Is it so wrong of me to wish likewise?"

His eyes widened in shocked surprise, and she realised that her swift retort had revealed far more of her feelings than she had intended. She stiffened, waiting for his response. For a long moment, they stared at each other, and for the briefest of moments she thought she saw Elfhelm the man battle to the surface. Elfhelm who had been without love for many long years and who perhaps did not believe that such a thing could once again be his. But then, with an abruptness that almost made her cry out in disappointment, Elfhelm the warrior regained controlled.

"I do not need a bodyguard," he said gruffly.

She looked pointedly at the raw gash on his arm. "Indeed not. But perhaps you still have need of a healer."

He shook his head, once again exasperated. "Do as you wish, woman. For I suspect you will have your own way even if the king were to forbid it."

"I am not that rebellious," she retorted. "But be assured, once I set my mind to something, I am rarely dissuaded."

With that she turned away and headed for the tack room.

Edoras awaited.

---------------

Eowyn sensed the difference in Ceorl the moment he entered her chamber. He seemed ill at ease, anxious even. He paced across the room to the window and peered across the plains of Rohan. Seated in a chair by the fire, she watched him in silence, curious as to the cause of the change and wondering if this new mood could be turned to her advantage in some way.

Apparently satisfied with the view from the window, he turned to face her. "I have made a decision," he announced. "The wedding will be bought forward. As soon as the funeral is over, we will be bonded."

Her stomach tightened at the thought. No matter what happened, she would never marry him. Surely he had to know that. Now was not the time to say so, though. Better to let him think she would go along with such a plan. "Such haste will appear unseemly," she said, keeping all emotion from her voice.

"What do I care for decorum?" He strode to where she was sitting and leaned over her. "I will be king, do you hear?"

Fear. It was in his eyes. Something had happened. Something that had stolen his confidence. She stifled a gasp as the only possible explanation sprang to mind.

"Eomer," she whispered. "He's escaped, hasn't he?"

He spun away from her, but then turned and gave a harsh laugh. "What makes you think that?"

She gestured to the fire. "Prove to me that he has not."

He glared at the fire and then at her, and she knew in that instant that he could not. Despite herself, she smiled with relief. Fury darkened his features. He stood in front of her again, grasped her chin so hard she was sure his fingers would leave bruises.

"Your brother is dead," he hissed. "Poisoned. Would you like me to entertain you with stories of how he writhed in agony for hours before finally succumbing?"

"You lie!" Pulling her head back, she broke his grip and in the same instant lurched to her feet. The thought of Eomer being free had invigorated her, as did the knowledge that she no longer needed to play her submissive role. This changed everything, for even if she now lost her own life in a fight with Ceorl, Rohan would still be saved. Rohan would still have a king.

Ceorl jerked back as though expecting a blade to appear in her hand. She wished she had one, but since her earlier failed attack on him, he'd seen to it that she was not even allowed a knife with her meals. She could strike at him with words, though. "You cannot hide the truth from me this time, Ceorl. Eomer has escaped and he's on his way to Edoras."

Ceorl grabbed her arm, yanked her close to him. "He's dead, I tell you. Poisoned."

"I don't believe you."

"It matters not what you believe." He pushed her away, causing her to fall back into the waiting embrace of the chair. "We will be wed and I will be king." A knock at the door bought an abrupt end to the conversation. "Enter," Ceorl barked.

One of his blue liveried guards stepped into the room. He glanced at Eowyn and then bowed to Ceorl. "My Lord, riders approach. It is the King of Gondor and his entourage."

"Aragorn," Eowyn breathed his name with relief. At last.

A jerk of Ceorl's head dismissed the guard. He turned to her once again. "You will greet them in the Golden Hall."

"With pleasure," she retorted.

"Do not think to betray me to him," he hissed. "I will not hesitate to kill them all. You know that I have the archers to do it."

An image flashed into her mind. Aragorn lying on the floor of the Golden Hall, a dozen arrows in his chest. Her euphoria died. "You would not dare."

Ceorl's lips twisted into a sick smile. "No, my lady, it is you who will not dare."

-------------------

"Eomer, I know you are eager to reach Edoras, but this is a cart not a chariot," Lothiriel said as she all but lost her seat as they bounced over a particularly rough piece of ground.

"Forgive me." He reined the horse back to a slower pace. "Are you alright?"

She settled back onto the hard wooden seat. "I am fine." He smiled his relief, but she could see the tension in him. "Perhaps you should have risked riding."

"No," he said immediately. "Elfhelm was right. There may still be men on the road looking for us. We may not reach Edoras as swiftly, but at least our disguise means that we may travel unhindered."

She glanced down at the coarse woollen dress she was wearing. It was the oldest garment in Breda's wardrobe. One that was so worn, Breda had been planning to unpick it in order to salvage what wool she could. With it she wore boots that were more holes than leather, and a shabby cloak. Her hair had been deliberately tangled and matted, and her face was streaked with dirt. As long as she did not give herself away by speaking, no one would ever suspect that she was part of Gondorian nobility. As for Eomer - she took a quick look at the handsome man at her side. His clothing was not as bad as the rags he had been wearing when they first met, but not by much. And he too was in dire need of a comb and a wash. The only thing remotely clean about him was the bandaged splint on his left arm, which Erika had rebound after checking that the bone was fusing properly.

"We are a pretty pair," she joked.

His eyes were mischievous as he looked at her. "Even dressed in rags and with dirt on your cheeks, there is no mistaking your beauty, my lady."

Embarrassed she smiled at him. "I was told that the men of Rohan were not given to words of flattery."

"Then you were told wrong," he replied. "Although it is true that we tend to compliment our horses more frequently than our women."

She laughed. "Then I shall treasure your words even more."

They fell silent again. Lothiriel gazed out at the countryside feeling awkward. Finally she could stand it no longer.

"Eomer, about yesterday…"

"Ah, yes." He gave an embarrassed sounding cough and kept his eyes fixed on the horses. "Your father would no doubt take a horse whip to me were he to hear of my behaviour."

Disappointment cut through her. Was that his main concern? That her father would be angry with him? Or was it simply that returning to Edoras had reminded him of the demands of court life. "You need have no fear on that score," she said. "He will not hear of the incident from me."

Eomer glanced at her, but his expression was unreadable. Was it relief? Or was it… oh no, had she just implied that she preferred the matter to be forgotten? She desperately tried to come up with a way of explaining that was not her intention without sounding like she was a brazen lass who welcomed such treatment. Before she could find the right words, Eomer spoke again.

"I would not have you thinking that I am the kind of man who is in the habit of forcing my attentions upon any available young woman," he said.

"Of course not."

"It was just that… in the heat of the moment…" He shot her a quick look. "I would seek your pardon if I offended you."

"Offended me?" She didn't know how to answer. Again he seemed more concerned with decorum than what his actions meant - assuming they meant anything, of course. "No, I did not take offence."

For a long moment, the only sound was the soft plod of the horse and the whisper of the grass as it bent beneath the caress of the breeze. She waited patiently, hoping he might continue, that he might say something that gave her some clue as to his feelings, as to why he had held her hand in his, long after the kiss had ended. Still he did not speak.

Finally, unable to bear the awkward silence a moment longer, she took a deep breath and began again. "Eomer, about yesterday…"

He all but flinched at her words, but she pressed on regardless. "Were I to be asked, not that I will be, but should someone ask, I think you should know that… well, that I might be persuaded to admit that the… umm… the experience… was not completely… without enjoyment."

That earned her his full attention. He tied off the reins, leaving the horse to set its own pace, and turned to her, his eyes searching hers. "Not completely without enjoyment?" he finally repeated slowly. "Then it seems I have more to apologise for than I first realised."

Heat burned her cheeks. In her attempt to navigate the difficult waters of a relationship that had yet to be defined, she had insulted his kissing ability. Could things get any worse? "No, Eomer, please, I did not mean to imply…" She cursed her stupidity, and also all the rules of convention and etiquette that meant there was a right way and a wrong way for two adults of the opposite sex to behave, especially when they belonged to Royal Houses from different countries. She glanced round, realised they were in the middle of nowhere and that the only witness to her words was a horse. Damn it, what did etiquette matter? It was entirely possible he was heading to his death in Edoras. If ever there was a time to speak with simple honesty this was it. "What I meant to say was that… should you be so inclined… I would not be averse to being kissed again."

A relieved smile tugged at his lips, but almost immediately he grew serious again. "Lothiriel, you know I can give you no guarantees as to what the future holds." He gestured towards Edoras. "I would have raised the subject of what happened yesterday myself were it not for that."

"The future will take care of itself, Eomer. We can only do the best with the time we have today."

"I would woo you properly if the fates allow it."

"Does that mean you aren't going to kiss me now?" she asked, not attempting to mask her disappointment at that prospect.

"Actually that means that I am going to kiss you in a manner that is likely to be entirely improper." He smiled as he leaned towards her. "I think it only fair to warn you that I do have a certain amount of pride in my ability to ensure a completely enjoyable experience."

"Would you like a mark out of ten?" she replied.

"Is that a challenge?" he murmured as his lips brushed lightly against hers.

"Absolutely," she managed to answer as heat shot through her body, pooling in a well of desire as his touch aroused her senses. Enjoyment did not come close to describing the next few minutes as she allowed herself to explore the smooth planes of his back with her hands and tangled her fingers into his hair, all the time relishing the warmth of his lips, the taste of him as he probed her mouth with his tongue, the musky scent of his skin. It was heaven. And what was more, she was aware that there was so much more to come.

"Lothiriel." Eomer groaned her name and drew away from her. He was breathless. His cheeks flushed. His pupils dilated. "We must stop otherwise, so help me, your father really will have reason to take a horsewhip to me." She sighed and reluctantly drew away from him. Slowly he untied the reins and urged the horse into a trot. He glanced sideways at her, and then wrapped an arm around her shoulders, drawing her close to him. "Believe me," he grumbled as she settled against him. "Never has earning a few lashes of a whip been so tempting."

She shivered against him. "Please, Eomer, don't even joke about such a thing. I have seen you hurt enough to last a lifetime."

He pressed his lips against her hair, and turned his attention back to Edoras.

------------------------------

Aragorn handed Brego's reins to one of Rohan's young stable boys and told his horse to behave for the lad. Then he turned his attention to the Golden Hall of Edoras. Memories from his last visit swirled. Eowyn - beautiful, vulnerable, so very sad. He had tried to let her down gently, but it had been impossible not to inflict hurt. Had he known the depths of her despair, that she would ride out with the men… He sighed. What was past, was past, and all had ended well except… Eomer. The loss of his friend, a man who he thought of as a brother, was even more acute now he stood before the place Eomer had called home. There was something else pulling at his senses, though. Something far darker than a spirit of mourning.

"Do you feel it?" he asked Faramir as the prince joined him. He struggled to find the words to describe what he was feeling as he opened himself to his surroundings. "There is… a heaviness."

Faramir gave a barely imperceptible shrug. "They are about to bury their king."

"No, it is more than that." Suddenly he knew what it was. "It is fear that I taste in the air."

Faramir glanced at him. "Perhaps that is from me, for I admit I am not looking forward to this audience."

That he could understand. It was one thing to face an orc army without flinching. It was quite another to face possible rejection by the woman you loved. He patted Faramir's back in supportive affection. "I believe you will soon find your fears groundless. Remember, though, what is shown on the surface is often not that which is in the heart."

"And what exactly is that supposed to mean?" Faramir asked, huffing out a breath.

"Exactly what it says," Aragorn replied. "Come, let's get this over with."

Four men in an unfamiliar blue livery stepped into his path as he headed towards the hall. They bowed politely and one of them addressed him. "Your Majesty, Queen Eowyn has asked that we escort you."

He inclined his head in polite acknowledgement of the honour guard. "That is most thoughtful of her, but she and I are old friends. There is no need for such formality." Before they could object he neatly sidestepped them and bounded up the steps to the large wooden doors of the Golden Hall. The guards there looked somewhat flustered at his sudden appearance. He smiled warmly. "Will you not open the door for me, lads?"

For a moment he thought they would deny him. But then, as though suddenly realising that the King of Gondor could not be kept standing around like a peddler of cheap corn, they were suddenly tripping over themselves to do his bidding.

He stepped into the gloom of the Golden Hall, ready to battle whatever evil awaited.


	25. A sacrifice of love

_A/N: A very Merry Christmas to everyone - readers and reviewers. Here is the final update for this year. The next update will be in the second week of January as I'm going away for the Christmas break and don't know that I'll have any internet access. To make up for that, this part is a bit longer - and a bit sappy towards the end especially for all you romance lovers. Well, it is Christmas after all. :-)_

**Chapter 25 – A Sacrifice of Love**

The sun was past its zenith and Eomer had just finished sharing a rather fine lunch with Lothiriel - bread, cheese and smoked ham, prepared and packed by Breda before they departed that morning. So far they had journeyed without incident. Indeed, the road to Edoras had been all but deserted. Now, however, he frowned as he watched two riders approach. He could tell from their bearing that these were no farmers returning to their holdings with their thoughts on their wives and a hot meal. They rode as though they owned the Mark, a sign either of youthful exuberance or, more worryingly, arrogance.

Slowing the horse, he kept his voice low as he addressed Lothiriel. "Remember not to speak. Your accent will give you away." She nodded. "And try not to look so tense," he added, noting the stiffness of her shoulders. That earned him a Gondorian insult that bought a smile to his lips.

The riders were almost upon them now, and Eomer saw that they were indeed youngsters. The elder of the two sported a few wispy hairs on his chin that he no doubt liked to think was a beard. The other had not yet achieved even that. Eomer fixed what he hoped was an expression of idle curiosity on his face as he hailed them. They drew to a halt in front of the cart. Neither returned the greeting. Instead the younger of the two addressed Eomer curtly. "I would know your name and the business that takes you to Edoras," he said.

Eomer bit down on the urge to snap that citizens of Rohan were free to travel where they wished and without answering to ill-mannered youths. "My name is Anlaf," he said, and then jerked his head in the direction of the sacks of grain in the cart. "We hope to trade our fine barley for new tools."

"Barley," the youth said contemptuously. He urged his horse forward, stopping again when he was beside Eomer. "You travel all this way to trade barley?"

"There are no finer metal workers than those in Edoras," Eomer replied. "The distance is worth it for tools that will serve a dozen winters." The youth didn't reply to that. He peered into the cart, clearly looking for something other than sacks of grain. Eomer pretended not to notice. "Have you two gentlemen travelled from there? We would be glad of news."

The rider didn't reply. Instead he nudged at his horse and trotted round to the far side of the cart where he stared at Lothiriel. "And your name, woman?" he demanded. She kept her head down as Eomer answered for her.

"She has no voice. Has been mute ever since orcs attacked the farm and…" Eomer lowered his voice as he adopted an air of tragedy. "We had a child. The orcs…" He shook his head as though unable to continue.

The tale had its desired effect. The rider gave an embarrassed cough and inclined his head in a brief show of respect. Even a callow youth knew better than to treat a grieving mother with contempt. "I am sorry for your loss. Be on your way now."

Eomer nodded and reached for the reins. Too late he realised the movement revealed the splint on his left arm - no doubt a telltale sign for any who had been given his description by Selred. He glanced up, hoping the rider had not seen it. Damnation. The young man's eyes flicked from the splint to Eomer's face. Realisation sparked, and Eomer saw the rider's hand drop to the hilt of his sword. "Whatever you've been told, boy, it is a lie. I advise you not to draw your sword against your king."

"You are no king," the lad snarled. "You are nothing but an impostor attempting to steal the throne. First Marshall Ceorl…"

First Marshall? What was happening in Edoras that Ceorl had managed to lay claim to such a position? Eomer glared at the youth. "It is Ceorl who would take that which is not rightfully his," he said. "He is a lying thief who cares naught that he has sent you out to die."

"Liar!" The boy's eyes were wide with zealous excitement. "The First Marshall desires nothing but to see evil scum like you driven from our lands. Your head will be mine, villain." Metal hissed against metal as he drew his sword.

"No," Lothiriel cried. "Listen to him. He speaks truth."

The boy ignored her. Digging his heels into the flanks of his horse, he moved into attack.

There was no time to think. Eomer flung himself into the back of the cart, retrieved his own sword from its hiding place amongst the grain in one swift move, and then threw himself at the rider, knocking the youth from the saddle. They hit the ground hard, rolling in a tangle of limbs. The thunder of hooves warned him of the approach of the other rider. Kicking out hard, he broke free and scrambled to his feet just in time to block a bone-jarring blow that had been designed to remove his head from his shoulders. The horse galloped past, its rider struggling to rein it back in order to turn for a second attack. The young man was on his feet now too.

"You do not want to fight me, lad," Eomer warned, circling away from the young man's blade. He glanced over his shoulder, was relieved to see that Lothiriel had taken refuge on the far side of the cart. For now she was safe, but it was still two onto one. It was kill or be killed unless he could make the boy see sense. "I am your king. Your oath of loyalty is due to me, not Ceorl."

"You are a filthy lying coward," the boy said, spitting at Eomer to show his contempt.

Eomer shook his head in exasperation. "Listen to me. I'm trying to save your life here."

"It is your life you should be concerned about, scum." He lunged, sword sparking as it met Eomer's blade. He was young, but someone had trained him well. Given time he might've been a good swordsman. There was no time, though. Eomer parried a thrust. Then another one. The boy was stronger than he looked and fueled with zealous hatred. Thrust. Parry. Thrust. Eomer gave himself up to his instincts, leapt to the left as a misjudged attack left his opponent wide open and without even thinking sank his blade deep into flesh. The young man was dead before he hit the ground. Damn it. Damn it all to hell.

"Look out!" Lothiriel yelled.

He swung round. Saw the other rider was nearly upon him. Hit the ground shoulder first, rolled and came up on his feet. The rider was reining his horse in, his back to Eomer. Open. Vulnerable. Eomer didn't even hesitate. He simply drew back his arm and threw his sword like a spear. It whistled through the air and then embedded itself into the skin and bone with a sickening squelch. The rider arched backwards and then collapsed sideways from the saddle. Eomer strode over to him, pulled his sword from the body and kicked the youth onto his back to check he was dead. Lifeless brown eyes stared up at him.

The adrenaline rush of battle deserted him as rapidly as it had come and he sank to his haunches, his blood-covered sword hanging limply in his hand. Two dead Rohirrim. One barely more than a boy. Would the killing never end?

"Eomer, are you wounded?" Lothiriel was at his side in a moment. Concerned eyes scanning his face. "Are you well? You look so pale."

He managed a weak smile that was no doubt more of a grimace. Forced himself to stand. It was more than despair at taking the lives of his own countrymen that troubled him. The sudden exertion had left him feeling nauseous and dizzy. Damnation. How could he hope to retake Edoras if a brief skirmish with two relatively unskilled swordsmen drained him so thoroughly? Lothiriel slipped her arm around his waist, taking some of his weight.

"You are not yet strong enough for such as this," she hissed, giving voice to his fears.

He pulled away from her, frustrated. He gestured to the dead with his blood-stained sword. "It seems I am strong enough to kill two lads who have not seen enough summers to tell the difference between truth and lies."

She flinched at his bitter tone, but rallied almost instantly, her concern for him overcoming any other interest. "That is not what I meant, as you well know." She reached for him, but he backed away.

"Do not fuss, woman. I am well enough."

That earned him a glare. And deservedly so. It was a poor lie even to his own ears. To his relief, though, she let the subject drop, turning instead to the bodies. "What are we going to do about them?"

He swallowed hard, fighting the nausea. Decisions. Why were there always decisions to be made? His body was demanding rest, but he knew that he couldn't give in to that. Neither could they afford the time needed to give these men a decent burial. "Take the saddles off the horses and turn them lose. They'll find themselves new masters."

"And the bodies?"

"Leave them."

"Eomer!"

His anger flared. "We have no choice, Lothiriel. Even if I had the strength for it, the ground here is too rocky to dig."

"We should at least drag them from the road."

"No," he said. "Others will assume they fell victim to bandits if we leave them." The distaste of his plan added to the roiling of his stomach, and he turned away, clutching at the cart for support. He would not vomit. Not in front of her. Not again.

To his relief, she did not speak again. Moments later, as he finally got his body under control, he heard the slap of leather against wood. Glancing up he saw the first of the saddles was now sitting in the back of the cart. He gave a brief nod of approval and forced himself upright. He could not afford to be weak now. Giving a low whistle, he summoned the other horse and swiftly removed the second saddle, depositing it next to the first. The bridles joined the saddles moments later, and then he gestured across the grassland, telling the horses to leave. They eyed him curiously, then both kicked up their heels and galloped into the distance. The final task was to clean the blood from his sword, which he did with a grim determination, desperately trying not to think that the story he had told earlier of a woman losing a child had just become reality for two more of his people.

Wordlessly he climbed back into the cart, waited for Lothiriel to join him. Her hand curled over his as he reached for the reins.

"Let me guide the horse for a while," she said.

He turned, intending to deny her, but when he saw the compassion in her eyes, the words died on his lips.

"Please, Eomer. I know you cannot bear a woman's fussing but let me at least do this."

He did not dare to speak, fearing that if he did so, too many words would spill from his mouth. His fears. His concern. His dismay at what he had just been forced to do. Instead he merely nodded and let her take the reins - and with them, just for a little while, the responsibility that weighed so heavily upon his shoulders.

------------------

Aragorn! Eowyn's heart leapt as he strode through the door. Tall and rugged, he still looked more ranger than king and it was difficult to remember all that had passed since last he had been at Edoras. Her pleasure in the moment was swiftly destroyed by a hiss of disapproval from Ceorl.

"Where is the honour guard?" he demanded in an angry whisper. "Does nothing go according to plan in this accursed place?"

She didn't reply. Aragorn was advancing down the hall, his gaze pinning her like a speared orc. A few yards behind him came the first wave of his entourage, apparently hurrying to catch up with him. She recognised some of the faces. Knew them to be men who had fought beside him during the war. All were armed and all would react instantly to any command given by the king. Did she dare reveal the truth to him now? Would he be able to stop Ceorl before he could command the archers above her head? Or was it better to trust that another, less dangerous, opportunity would present itself over the next day or so?

And then she saw him.

Faramir.

Her stomach did a sickening drop, battling with the instinctive joy she felt at the sight of his face. He too was trailing some distance behind Aragorn, looking as though he'd rather be entering the Gates of Mordor. Somehow she managed to get to her feet, her initial reaction giving way to frightened anger. Foolish, foolish man. How could he do this to her? After all she had risked to try and protect him, he was walking right into the heart of the serpent's lair. She sensed Ceorl moving closer. He leaned in, whispering malevolently into her ear. "How kind of the Prince of Ithilien to grace us with his presence. Speak so much as a word out of turn and I will see to it that the floor runs red with his blood."

No. She could not bear the image that flew into her mind. Damn Ceorl. And damn the fates for such ill-fortune, for no matter what was at stake, she knew she could not bring herself to place Faramir's life in jeopardy.

Aragorn was almost before her now. She forced herself to smile. Forced herself to be calm. "Hail, Elessar, King of Gondor. Welcome to…"

She didn't get to finish because, instead of stopping at the foot of the raised platform on which her throne was positioned, Aragorn simply walked up to her, gripped her by the shoulders and pressed his forehead to hers.

"Eowyn," he said. "Let not titles and stations come between those who grieve."

Her breath caught in her throat and a shiver ran through her as she saw the raw pain of loss in his eyes. How could she not tell him that she believed Eomer still lived? And yet… It was too complicated. Her head was spinning as she tried to calculate the result of each possible action. It was like staring at a chessboard in which any move she made might result in the deaths of those she loved. "Aragorn, it is so good to see you" she replied, closing her eyes as she leaned into his embrace. His lips brushed against her ear as he hurriedly whispered, "You do not stand alone."

Her eyes flew open. Did he know? Did he suspect? Before she could say anything, he released her as swiftly as he had snatched her up and glanced around the hall. "I expected to see Eothain in attendance today."

Ceorl stepped forward and gave a brisk bow. "I am afraid Master Eothain is away with my eored tending to the duties of the Mark."

She spoke into the silence as Aragorn's eyes raked Ceorl from head to toe and then back again. "This is Ceorl. First Marshall of the Mark."

"Your Majesty." Ceorl bowed again.

"First Marshall of the Mark." Aragorn slowly repeated out the title. "A position that no doubt brings a heavy burden."

"I serve as best I can," Ceorl replied.

"But not with your eored," Aragorn observed, once again glancing around the hall.

Ceorl's eyes narrowed. "The queen needs me here."

Faramir stepped forward. "And naturally the queen's needs come before all others." He bowed to her, but the bitterness in his tone was like a slap across her face.

She longed to reach out to him. Longed to explain herself. Instead she had no choice but to play out the role she had cast for herself. "I am surprised to see you here, Lord Faramir."

He met her gaze then, his pale blue eyes glittering dangerously. "My affection for your brother remains unchanged by recent events, my lady. I would not dishonour his memory by failing to show due respect."

"For that I am grateful," she said. The pain in his eyes almost undid her, but she refused to look away. She deserved to feel his hurt. Deserved whatever anger he might choose to flay her with.

"Your Majesty," Ceorl said. "Our guests have travelled a great distance. No doubt they are eager to refresh themselves. May I summon the steward to show them to their accommodations?"

"Yes." The word was little more than a whisper, emotion almost stealing her voice from her. "Please do." She sank back onto the throne and watched with apparent passivity as her royal guests were led away. Later she would find a way to reach Aragorn and tell him the truth. As for Faramir… she could only pray that he would find it in his heart to forgive her. However, as he reached the doorway he turned to look at her one more time. The coldness in his eyes was like a shaft of ice piercing her heart. As he stepped from view she could not prevent the escape of a tear.

Ceorl stepped in front of her as the hall emptied. "You did well," he said, beckoning to two of the guards. "Escort her Majesty back to her chamber. See that she does not leave it unless I am there to accompany her."

She rose with what dignity she could muster. "Do you really believe you can still get away with this foolish plan?"

"Had you asked that of me yesterday, I might have said no. But now, Lord Faramir has so kindly come to my aid."

"You may still have a hold over me, but what of Eomer?" she goaded.

He grabbed her wrist and gave it a vicious twist. "Even if he still lives, your brother will not get within ten leagues of Edoras. Of that you can be sure." He released her suddenly and jerked his head at the guards. "Get her out of my sight."

"He will come," she hissed as she was led away. "And when he does, he will bleed you like the pig you are."

------------------

Night was beginning to fall when Elfhelm saw the lights of Edoras glowing softly in the dark. He and Erika had pushed both their horses and themselves hard during the day. The strenuous ride had been worth it though. With luck, the last part of their approach would go unnoticed. It was rare for anyone to approach the city from this direction. Most people would have joined the northern road long before drawing this close. Another couple of leagues and they would be at the base of the hill. There they could camp and then, in the morning, circle round to the main gate and attempt to seek entry along with the daily ebb and flow of traders and craftsmen.

He slowed his horse to a walk, and glanced over at Erika. She was staring at Edoras, her face a strange mixture of wonder and concern. Apparently conscious of his look, she turned to him and smiled wearily.

"Long have I dreamed of seeing the Golden Hall. Never did I imagine it to be in such strange circumstances."

"If the gods look upon us with favour, I hope soon you will see it in all its glory - with Eomer once again on the throne where he belongs."

"That is a day I treasure a great deal," she replied.

They walked on in silence for a while, the pinpricks of light growing ever closer. Then, in the shadows that lay ahead, Elfhelm thought he caught sight of movement. He shifted in his saddle, one hand dropping to the hilt of his sword as he tried to focus on whatever it was. Erika turned towards him, her eyes wide, clearly sensing his unease. He pressed a finger to his lips, indicating she should remain silent, and then he reined in his horse. Standing silently side by side in the dark, they studied their surroundings.

Nothing.

With a shake of his head, he nudged his horse on once again.

"Elfhelm!" Erika suddenly cried out his name.

He turned just in time to see her being pulled from the saddle. A figure appeared at his side, clearly set on attempting the same with him. He kicked out viciously. Was rewarded by his attacker's cry of pain. Then, with a roar of outrage, he drew his sword and wheeled his horse around intent on slaying whoever it was that dared lay a hand on Erika. Immediately three men stepped across his path. He blinked as he saw the White Horse of Rohan emblazoned across the metal of their shields. Had it come to this? Was he to fight those who had once stood beside him in battle?

"Master Elfhelm?" A second voice, this one male, shouted his name as he hesitated. Hooves drummed against the soft ground, and suddenly a mounted rider appeared out of the dark, close enough for his face recognisable.

"Eothain?" For a moment he didn't know whether to rejoice or cry.

"Aye, my Lord." Eothain twisted round in his saddle and barked into the night. "Stand down. This is no foe."

Elfhelm reined his horse back, aware the creature was now ready for battle, its muscles bunched beneath his legs. He calmed it with a few gentle words before turning his attention towards the waiting rider. "By the gods, Eothain, are you trying to scare us all to death?"

A chortle rose up at him. "That horse of yours has ever been as skittish as a colt, my friend."

Erika's voice sounded in the dark. "Take your hands off me, you scum."

Elfhelm leapt from his saddle and strode to the far side of Erika's horse. He was just in time to see her pulled roughly to her feet. "Let go of her," he growled, his sword aimed at her captor's throat.

The man immediately backed away, raising his hands in surrender. "Forgive me, my Lord. My lady. I meant no harm."

A growl escaped Elfhelm's throat. Eothain reached out and laid his hand against Elfhelm's blade, gently forcing the weapon down. "Don't be too hard on Jerling. We have had reason to be suspicious of those we do not know of late."

Elfhelm glared at Eothain, then drew in a deep breath. This was his friend. A man he had frequently trusted with his life. It was time to let go of the insecurity of the past few days. Time to learn to trust once again. He thrust his sword back into its sheath as the adrenaline rush of battle drained from him. "Are you alright?' he asked Erika. She nodded, brushing at her skirts in an indignant manner. He turned back to Eothain. "It is good to see you, but pray tell me what you are doing skulking around the nether regions of Edoras in such a manner?"

"I would ask the same of you," Eothain said with a soft laugh. "But since you voiced the question first - We are camped here on the orders of King Elessar. Far enough from Edoras that none can see us, yet close enough that he can call us should he need us. We prefer that news of our presence does not reach the Golden Hall, hence our rather enthusiastic intention to stop your progress. Another half league and you would've ridden right into our camp."

"You are under the command of the King of Gondor?" Elfhelm was shocked. "What ill has befallen the city that men of Rohan are answering directly to Gondor?"

"That is not easily answered," Eothain replied. "For perhaps there is no ill at all."

"Do not talk in riddles, Eothain. You know I have no love of them. Tell me plainly, how fares the Lady Eowyn?"

Eothain raised an eyebrow at the choice of title. "The queen is rarely seen, and when she is, she is not herself. They say the loss of her brother has driven her mad, and perhaps they are right. Why else would she appoint Ceorl as First Marshall?"

"She did what?" Elfhelm exclaimed. "That scoundrel. I will see him on the end of my sword if I get but half a chance."

"There are many who would cheer such an event," Eothain said. "With each passing day he grows more powerful. I fear his ambition knows no limits. Some are even saying that he has set his sights on the throne itself."

Elfhelm snorted. "And there you have the truth of the matter."

Eothain eyed him curiously. "What do you know of it, Elfhelm?"

"Far more than you can possibly imagine. I have a tale to tell that many would believe to be the ravings of a man who has drunk too deeply of the ale barrel."

Now it was Eothain's turn to snort. "We have lived through many strange days. I do not believe anything can surprise me."

"No?" Elfhelm allowed himself to smile in anticipation the reaction his news would elicit. "What if I was to tell you that the king lives?"

"The king?" Eothain stared at him blankly.

"Aye." He waited, letting the rider figure it out for himself.

Disbelief was tinged with hope as Eothain spoke again. "The king as in… Eomer?"

Elfhelm felt his own throat choke as Eothain stood before him, battling with tears of joy. He slapped the rider on the shoulder. "I swear upon all I hold dear. Eomer lives. And even now he is journeying to Edoras to take back that which Ceorl would steal from him."

---------------------

She could so easily have lost him. Again. How many times was that now? She had leaned against him in the cart as they journeyed on, needing the solid feel of his body against hers. Needing the physical proof that he was still breathing, still living. Although she knew the deaths earlier in the day pained him, she could not truly bring herself to feel the same way. What concerned her more was how many other men lay between them and Edoras? These two had been little more than boys, skilled enough with weapons for their age, but no match for Eomer. Tomorrow could be different. It was comforting to think that there were none who could best Eomer with a blade, but it was unlikely to be true. Especially given his weakened state. What if the morning bought two battle-hardened foes. Or three. Or more. To have come this far, to have overcome so much… her heart had began to pound in her chest. The nightmare of losing him overwhelming her again, as it had several times during the afternoon.

It hadn't helped that they'd travelled in silence since the fight, each locked in their own brooding thoughts. She could guess where his were focused - Edoras, Eowyn, the day that lay ahead. It was unlikely that he would have been so successful in predicting the path down which her mind had ultimately drifted. Nor would he perhaps have understood the trepidation with which she contemplated such a route, for it was no easy choice, should she dare to turn thought into action.

Now night had fallen and she had to choose. A dangerous path filled with unknowns and risks, or a route that seemed safe and sensible and yet which might cost her more dearly. She gazed at the scene before her. The horse had been released from its harness and was grazing contently a few yards away. The small fire over which she had prepared a vegetable stew for dinner had been extinguished so as not to draw attention to their presence. And the back of the cart had been turned into a makeshift bed. A bed that Eomer clearly did not intend to sleep in. Yes, it was definitely time to make her choice and accept the consequences of it.

She caught at his arm as he moved away, a single blanket wrapped around his shoulders. "There is room enough for two on the cart. My conscience will not allow me to be dry and warm while knowing that you are chilled to the bone."

He shrugged her off. "I appreciate your concern, but do not fret over me. This will not be the first, not the last time that I have slept on the ground."

"Eomer, please, don't be foolish. The night is chill and the ground even more so. It will leech the warmth from your body in no time."

"Lothiriel…"

She cut across him, keen to make him see the logic of what she suggesting. "What is more you are still not fully recovered from the poison. Today has proven that, has it not?" She didn't wait for an answer, knowing the subject was a delicate one. "It makes far more sense for us to share this scant bedding than to not do so."

"Perhaps it does, although I doubt that the Prince of Dol Amroth would be persuaded so."

Her stomach twisted at the mention of her father, too sharp a reminder of all that she was preparing to risk. "What he does not know, can not cause harm. Besides, have you not promised to woo me when this is over?"

"You know that I have, and I mean it with all my heart."

A thrill ran through her at both his words and the sincerity in his eyes. After their sharp words earlier, she had not been as sure of his affection, even though she had told herself not to be so foolish, so self-centred. Her tone softened. "And tell me, do formal declarations and written treaties make a difference to that which has been spoken between us?"

He hesitated, but then admitted to what she had hoped was the truth of their relationship. "None."

"Then please, enough with this foolishness about sleeping on the ground."

Still he hesitated, and she loved him all the more for it. However, there was one card she still had not played. Turning away from him, she grabbed a blanket from the makeshift bed. "Very well, if you insist of spending the night cold and miserable, I will do likewise."

"Lothiriel."

"Your choice, Eomer."

He shook his head in bemusement, and then raised his hands in defeat. "That is more like blackmail than choice," he grumbled, but his lips were fighting a smile and he allowed himself to be drawn back towards the cart. Back towards the bed.

Even though she had spent most of the afternoon anticipating this moment, it felt very strange to be lying next to him. He wrapped his right arm around her shoulders and then planted a chaste kiss on her forehead, making it quite clear he intended to do nothing except sleep beside her. She had expected no less of him, which only made her fear his reaction to her plan all the more. The easy path beckoned once again, and for a while she stared up at the stars until the memories of the day once again circled her like carrion eaters. It was as though death itself stalked Eomer, determined to drag him from this life. To take him from her.

"Lothiriel? What's wrong?"

She hesitated, unwilling to voice the black thoughts that clung to her. When it became obvious she could remain silent no longer, she skirted the issue. "Do you think Erika and Elfhelm will have reached Edoras by now?"

Eomer shifted onto his side so he could look at her, his eyes darker than ever in the moonlight. "Elfhelm is one of the best riders I have ever known."

"That does not answer my question."

He did not answer. How could he? The question was unfair, begging him to offer false promises. Something that she knew he would not do. She gazed up at the sky again, the weight of the darkness seeming to press down upon her even more, and then finally she turned to him, searching his face, drinking in his features as though somehow she could seal the image in her heart for all time. Despite dwelling on the subject throughout the day, she found she was still fumbling for the right words, and she mentally rejected a dozen beginnings before finally asking, "Did you know that Erika was promised in marriage before the war?"

"Yes, I did," Eomer replied, puzzlement in his tone.

"It is tragic, is it not, that she never had a single night alone with the man she loved."

"Lothiriel…"

She turned to him before he could continue, and pressed her lips to his in a light kiss. Her mind was made up now. This was the right path. Everything in her screamed that it was so.

"Eomer, what if the fates have decreed that this is the only night..."

She trailed off, her eyes searching his face to see if he understood what she was saying. What she was offering. She had been fortunate during the war. Her father and her brothers had all ridden to battle and returned. So many other women had not been so lucky. She didn't want to become like Erika, forever regretting what might have been. The idea of seducing him frightened her, but she would not let that fear rob her of what might be her only chance to show him how much she loved him.

Eomer pulled away from her, propping himself up on one elbow. "Lothiriel, are you..." He hesitated. Drew in a breath. Plunged on. "You would give yourself to me?"

She nodded, heat burning her cheeks now. "I could not bear it if…" Again she could not bring herself to speak that which she feared.

"If what?"

A tear slid down her face. "If you were to die. Eomer, I would rather know you this one night than live a lifetime of regret that we did not join together because of… propriety."

"Shush." He pressed a finger to her lips. "I have no plans to die tomorrow or any day soon."

"Eomer…"

He leaned over her then, pressing his lips to hers. She opened up to him, welcoming the sweet invasion of her mouth, tangling her fingers into his hair, storing every moment into her memory. Need and desire washed through her, driving away any lingering doubt. No matter what happened in the future, she knew that she would only ever belong to him. Heart. Soul. And body. There would be no other.

But then abruptly he broke away. Rolling onto his back he groaned.

"What is wrong?" she asked, leaning over him so she could look into his eyes. Why did he hold back? Passion and desire stared back at her and yet…

"I cannot take what you offer," he whispered. "Though you pay me the highest of compliments."

"Why not?" Hurt surged through her. She had offered herself, and he spoke now of compliments as though she had presented him some trifling gift of no more import than a child's flower garland?

"Lothiriel, think about it. What if I got you with child?"

"That is a risk I have considered. A risk I am willing to take."

"But I am not." He reached up, catching a strand of her hair between his fingers. "Lothiriel, please believe me, there is nothing - nothing, that would bring me greater pleasure than to make love to you right now, but how can I do so knowing the price you might be forced to pay?"

"It is a price I am willing to pay, Eomer. Do not think I am doing this on some foolish whim. I have given much thought to what may happen. You spoke earlier of my father and you were right to do so. There would be scandal and disgrace were I to bear a child outside marriage. And much as he loves me, he could not allow me to stay at court."

He shook his head vehemently. "No, Lothiriel, no."

"Eomer, listen to me. If the gods will that…"

"No! You don't understand." He caught her face in his hands, frustration flaring. "You say you have thought this through, but you have not. Think, Lothiriel, if our coupling was to leave you with child - my child - then Ceorl would surely find out." Anguish twisted his features, ageing him. "He would hunt you down. Hunt you down and kill you. Both of you."

She froze at that. Stared at him in horror as she suddenly understood why he would not, could not take what she offered. Her hurt and frustration vanished, leaving her drained and shaking. She bowed her head, suddenly unable to look at him. How could she have been so incredibly and utterly stupid? "Forgive me," she murmured. Tears began to flow as she realised how desperately unfair it was. That no matter how much she wanted it, Ceorl had stolen even this one night from them.

The heat of anger vanished swiftly from Eomer, cooled by the touch of her tears as he tilted her face and wiped his thumb gently across her cheek. "Forgive you for what?" he whispered. "For offering me the most precious gift I could ever wish for? There is nothing to forgive."

"I was stupid to suggest…"

"Shush." He drew her into his arms, wrapping her tight, her face pressed to his chest. "It was not stupid. It was beautiful and brave, and I will treasure the memory always. I love you, Lothiriel."

"And I you."

He pressed a kiss into her hair, smiled down at her as she tilted her head to look at him. A second kiss brushed her forehead. A third caressed the tip of her nose. Finally he reclaimed her lips, this time with a tenderness that was filled her with a different kind of joy.

"I promise when this is over…" he murmured.

"I know," she interrupted with a sigh. "You will woo me properly."

Amusement rippled through him. "Aye, as properly as unseemly haste will allow."


	26. A message for the king

A/N: Happy New Year! I hope you all enjoyed the festive season. Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter. On with the story once again…

**Chapter 26 – A message for the king**

"We need to get a message to King Elessar," Elfhelm said. He was sitting in Eothain's tent, a bowl of hot stew in his hand and a tankard of ale on the table in front of him. Erika was by his side, her attention on her meal. The comforting sounds of an eored at rest drifted through the doorway. Laughter. Bawdy jokes. The occasional voice raised in song. It was a good feeling, but one he felt uneasy about enjoying while Eomer's fate was still unknown.

Eothain frowned. "That may not be easy. I am supposed to be many leagues from here. As are all the men of the eored."

"Then I will have to go," Elfhelm said. "Enough time has passed that it would not seem unreasonable for me to be returning from Gondor. However, Ceorl is sure to keep a close eye on me the moment my presence is made known to him. It is possible that once I am in the city, I may not be able to leave again."

Erika looked up. "I will go. My face is not known to the guards of Edoras."

"Absolutely not," Elfhelm said, earning himself a surprised look from Eothain. "It is far too dangerous."

"Nonsense," Erika replied. "I will enter the city as a widow seeking work in the kitchen. No one will even notice me."

"Everyone will notice you," Elfhelm argued.

Eothain caught his eye. "Though I do not wish to cause discord between you and your lady…"

"I am not his lady," Erika interjected, causing Elfhelm to flinch inwardly. Did she not know how much he desired the opposite? Clearly he could forget such a dream, since the idea displeased her so.

"Forgive me," Eothain said, with a slight bow of his head. "Whatever the reason for it, Elfhelm, I fear you are being overly protective. It makes sense for Erika to undertake this task."

"And undertake it I will," Erika said.

Elfhelm cursed silently. They were both right, of course. Nevertheless he hated the idea of Erika placing herself at risk. "Very well, but not before day break. I will not have her wandering Edoras alone at night. With Ceorl in charge, I hesitate to imagine what evil now walks freely in the dark." He dragged his eyes from her and turned his attention back to Eothain. "What of Eomer?"

The rider leaned back in his chair, picking up his ale as he did so. "That is already taken care of." He raised his tankard. "Let us drink to his health and safe return."

-----------------------

Ceorl paced before the empty throne in the Golden Hall. He had consulted Galwyn again, but learnt nothing new. The Flames of Foresight still betrayed her. She could see nothing but a blazing light. Now he felt as blind as her. A few days before the future had seemed so clear to him. Rohan's queen and its throne were to be his. Two more days and everything he desired would've fallen into his hands like a ripe apple.

Now his plans threatened to unravel. Galwyn did not know whether Selred had succeeded in his task of killing Eomer or not. Even now, the king could burst through the doors and lay claim to that which was rightfully his.

Exhausted, Ceorl sank onto the throne, running his hands along the smooth wood that had served Rohan's kings for so many long and tumultuous years. No. He would not let this happen. He would not lose all that he and his mother had worked so hard for - not this late in the game. Since he could not rely on Selred, he would send men of his own. Eomer, Son of Eomund could not be allowed to return to the Golden Hall.

---------------------------

"Riders!" Eomer said, his sharp eyes spotting the dust cloud on the road ahead. The sun had barely risen, and he and Lothiriel had yet to breakfast. A more dismal start to the day was hard to imagine. He slowed the horse, not wanting to give them away by travelling at a suspiciously fast pace.

Lothiriel put to good use one of the new Rohirric curses she had learnt over recent days. "How many?"

"They are still too far for me to discern. At least three. Maybe more." He peered round at the surrounding countryside in the vain hope some form of cover might suddenly appear from the plain. The horse whuffed impatiently as it sensed his uncertainty through the reins, and he clicked his tongue to reassure it. There was no where to go except straight on towards the riders.

Lothiriel glanced at him. "Too many to fight."

He couldn't deny it. "We will get past them," he said, with more conviction than he felt.

"How?"

"By not making the same mistake as before." He held out his left arm, tugging the sleeve of his tunic up to his elbow. "Remove it."

Her eyes widened as she stared at the splint on his arm. "The bone has not had time yet to heal."

"It will not heal at all if I am dead," he said. She flinched at that and though he felt bad for hurting her with such a sharp reminder, he dismissed the emotion. There was no time for sweet words and thoughts of sensibilities. "Do it, Lothiriel. Now."

Her face grim, she pulled a small dagger from its hiding place in her skirts. Eomer slowed the horse even more as she set the blade against the bindings. He didn't want to end up explaining to the riders why his forearm was newly cut and bleeding. Fortunately Lothiriel was deft, and a few moments later his arm was free. She tossed the splints into the back of the cart where they would easily be mistaken for firewood. The strips of bandages vanished into a pocket. Eomer flexed the fingers of his left hand and tested out his wrist. The limb seemed well enough, although he knew that was most likely deceiving. As soon as possible he would need to get it splinted again.

Now wasn't the time to worry about that, though. The riders were almost upon them. He glanced at Lothiriel, registered how worried she looked. One day soon, he was going to see to it that she had nothing more troublesome to concern her than what colour her next dress would be. She smiled weakly at him, gently squeezed his fingers and then turned her attention to the riders.

It was worse than he thought. There were six of them. All well armed and armoured. There was absolutely no possibility of taking them on in battle and winning. He ducked his head down, adopted what he hoped was a suitably cowed posture and pulled the cart to a halt. Hooves thundered as the men bore down on them. Two went past, reining in their mounts to the rear of the cart. Two stopped either side of the cart, level with himself and Lothiriel. The other pair stopped just in front, preventing any opportunity of forward progress. They were totally surrounded.

"Hail, Eomer," the rider to the right of Eomer said.

It was over then. Ceorl had found him.

--------------------

Erika could see that it wasn't going to be difficult to get through the main gate. The king's funeral was planned for the next day. As a result, Edoras was crowded with people wishing to pay their respects, as well as numerous traders who knew that a gathering meant an opportunity to sell their wares. Nevertheless she waited until the guards were engaged with a trader pushing a cart filled with caged ducks before slipping past.

Once inside, it was not difficult to get her bearings. The Golden Hall towered majestically in front of her. The main steps led to two large wooden doors, which were guarded by blue liveried soldiers. She watched for a few moments, observing how they turned everyone away with the exception of others dressed as they were. Clearly that was not going to be her way in.

Drifting with the crowd, she moved to the left of the hall, following her nose as much as her instinct. The smell of fresh bread grew stronger as she drew nearer, and it was not long before she discovered herself by the bake house. Taking up another position from which she could watch, she observed the hot loaves being stacked on a long trestle table near the outside door. As another batch was slid into the ovens, a young girl wrapped half a dozen freshly cooked loaves with a clean muslin cloth and then carried them through a different door, presumably into the hall itself. Some time passed, and then the girl reappeared, gathered up six more loaves and headed off again. Perfect.

Erika waited until the baker and his assistant were fully occupied in shaping a fresh batch of dough. Heart pounding she slipped through the outer door and prayed they would not turn to look at her as she grabbed a cloth from the pile at one end of the table and swiftly wrapped a couple of loaves in it. The skin pricked at the back of her neck as she headed for the door to the hall, expecting at any moment to be apprehended. Luck was with her, though. She stepped through the doorway and into a cool, dark passageway without any one stopping her.

The light was dim here, and she paused to give her eyes chance to adjust. Paused too, to calm her nerves, knowing as she did that there was far more danger inside than out. Especially the danger that she had not mentioned to Elfhelm for fear he would prevent her from taking on this task, and risk himself instead. No point in dwelling on that now, though. Time to move on. Elfhelm had drawn a map of the hall for her and she'd done her best to memorise it. However, his neatly sketched lines and squares seemed to bear little resemblance to the corridors and doors that lay ahead. She took a deep breath, offered up a brief prayer and headed to her left, trusting to her memory. If the bake house was behind her, then this route should lead her past a number of storerooms to a staircase and a doorway. The latter opened into a set of rooms behind the throne room. The stairs would take her to the rooms occupied by the queen and her guests. Elfhelm had told her that it was likely the King of Gondor would be give accommodations on the eastside of the hall.

She found the stairs without problem, and hurried up them, but to her dismay she discovered the upper corridor was filled with people. For a moment her nerve almost failed her, but then she spotted several trays of food carelessly discarded on a bench. Breakfast trays awaiting collection by the looks of it. Adopting the near-invisible attitude of a servant she quickly cleared one off and then restocked it with a clean goblet, a half-full flagon of ale and several slices of bread from one of the loaves she'd been carrying. The addition of an untouched pat of butter and a pot of honey made the tray appear as though it was fresh.

Armed now with the tray instead of the loaves, she wove her way amongst the crowd. There were yet more blue liveried guards, and a large number of every day folk gathered in groups of two or three. Here and there she caught snippets of conversation. Ah, so they were waiting for an audience with the First Marshall. With luck they would all be more interested in their own business than in the passage of a nameless servant girl with a tray of food.

Up ahead she saw the door she was heading for. A large round shield hung over the lintel, the colours of both Rohan and Gondor painted upon it. Elfhelm said it was a symbol of the oaths Eomer had sworn to Elessar at the end of the war – oaths that promised Rohan would always come to the aid of Gondor should such aid be needed. Now she hoped fervently that the King of Gondor would come to the aid of the King of Rohan. She stepped closer, and suddenly found her way barred by a giant of a man in a blue tunic.

"Your business here?" he demanded.

She adopted a small demure smile. "I bring breakfast for the king." Please, please, don't let him have eaten already.

The guard frowned. "Where is the girl that normally serves these rooms? I was not told to expect someone who is unfamiliar to me."

"She was taken unwell." Erika saw his frown deepen, and so strengthened the lie by smiling coyly. "As for our unfamiliarity, perhaps we can remedy that when you get off duty."

He brighten as he realised she was flirting with him, and his eyes took careful stock of her figure. "Perhaps we could. And where might I find you?"

"In the kitchen. Unless of course I am dismissed from my position for serving the king's breakfast with undue tardiness."

"That would be an ill fate for a pretty wench such as yourself," he said. "Best you hurry up and see to the king's needs." His eyes followed her as she moved past him. "I shall look forward to you seeing to mine later."

She smiled at him. Cur. As though she would allow his unwashed body anywhere close to her own. Right now, though, she had more important things to think about. Stepping up to the door, she gave a quick knock and without waiting for a response, she slipped into the room.

------------------------

Eomer looked at the rider who had addressed him, knowing there was little point in denying his identity and yet still determined to try. The words died on his lips as he found it was a familiar pair of blue eyes that stared back at him from behind the protection of a helmet. All hope vanished. It was Jerling, a rider from the eored that had once been his. One who did not need a splinted arm to recognise him. "Am I betrayed by my own men now?" he asked, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.

"Betrayal, sire?" Confusion flickered across the young man's face. "Nay. We've been sent by Lord Eothain to escort you to safety."

"Eothain?" Eomer could scarcely believe his ears. If there was one person he could trust in addition to Elfhelm, it would be Eothain.

"Aye, your Majesty. He awaits your arrival with much eagerness. He and Lord Elfhelm."

Lothiriel gave a sigh of relief. "Elfhelm lives? And the woman travelling with him?"

"Both are quite safe, mi'lady."

One of the riders at the front of the cart suddenly wheeled his horse around. "Jerling! Blue breasts approach." He gestured down the road. Jerling glanced over his shoulder and swore under his breath.

"Blue what?" Eomer demanded, squinting in the direction of Edoras. A second dust cloud was visible now.

"Marshall Ceorl's personal guard," Jerling spat with disgust. He too wheeled his horse around, gesturing to the riders behind the cart as he did so. "You two, stay with the king. The rest of you, with me."

Eomer was on his feet now, his hand reaching for his sword. Lothiriel caught at his arm, her expression imploring. "Please, don't. Let them fight this one for you."

"Lothiriel…" It went against everything he was to let other men do battle for him.

"You need to save your strength," she said. "They are fit and healthy and eager to prove themselves before you. Please, Eomer."

He slumped down, knowing she was right, but still hating the situation. "There must be no more deaths, Lothiriel."

She squeezed his hand gently. "You are the king, Eomer. Better get used to people protecting you."

"I will never get used to it. Never."

----------------------------

There were two men seated by the fire. Erika hadn't expected that. "King Elessar?"

The elder of the two glanced towards her, his face irritated. His gaze shifted down to the tray in her hands. "Are we to have no peace? We have already broken our fast."

"Forgive me, you Majesty." She gave a dip of a curtsey, recalled how Eomer had once been impatient with such an action, and decided it best to come straight to the point. Except, who was the young man sitting with the king? She glanced at him and took her courage into her hands. "If I may be so bold as to ask your name, sir?"

Both men frowned at her, and it was the king who answered. "This is Faramir, the Prince of Ithilien."

Faramir? Ah yes, the future husband of Eomer's sister and a friend of the king. Relief made her hands shake and she hurriedly set the tray down on the table next to the bed. "Thank goodness." She turned back to Aragorn. "Sire, I have a message for you from Master Eothain. He requests that you meet with him as soon as possible. Also…"

The door burst open behind her, and she spun round, the news that Eomer was still alive dying on her lips. Horror washed over her like a wave of iced water. It was Ceorl. She had hoped their paths would not cross, had prayed as much when she volunteered for this task. Now she all but held her breath. Would he recognise her from the rare occasions they had attended the same harvest celebrations in the northern villages? Hopefully not. There had always been other girls who were older and prettier than her. Girls who had gladly claimed his attention. As his gaze fell on her she ducked her head, feigning obeisance. Too late. She saw his glare become tinged with puzzlement.

"Woman, what are you doing in the king's quarters?"

"Peace, Ceorl," Aragorn said before she could reply. "She meant no harm. She is simply a woman seeking work as…"

"A seamstress," Erika said as she heard the slight hesitation in Aragorn's voice. "I heard a rumour that the Lady Arwen had need of such and…"

Her relief that the king had covered for her was short-lived. Ceorl grabbed her arm, the bite of his fingers forcing her to look up. His eyes narrowed as he scanned her face. "Where do I know you from?"

"The kitchens, my lord. I have been employed to help what with Edoras being so full of visitors and all." Her heart was pounding now. The lie unconvincing to her own ears

He shook his head. "No, your face… I have seen you… somewhere else." He turned back to Aragorn, his fingers still clasped tightly around her arm. "I will see to it that she does not trouble you further."

"There is no need to concern yourself," Aragorn replied. "I'm sure she meant no harm, and was merely…"

"On the contrary, your Majesty. I consider it a matter of grave concern when a royal guest is disturbed for no good reason." With that, he yanked her towards the door.

Aragorn stepped forward. "Ceorl, I do not think it necessary…"

"With all due respect, your Majesty, I would ask that you not interfere in this matter. There are certain matters of security, Rohan security, that you are not privy to at this time."

Erika saw the king's lips narrow into a tight white line. He inclined his head in acceptance to Ceorl, but when his eyes met hers they were filled with apology. Moments later she was out in the hallway. Two guards were standing nearby and Ceorl all but threw her at them. "Hold her," he snarled. Strong hands closed around her arms. She opened her mouth to protest, but a sweaty palm pressed down over her lips, silencing her, and she found herself staring up at the face of the guard she had flirted with earlier. Ceorl's voice was a malevolent hiss. "I may not recall your face now, my lady, but I will do." He jerked his head at her captors. "Lock her away. I will question her later."

Furious at being caught, Erika realised with sickening certainty that there was nothing she could do to help herself as she was dragged away. A few curious eyes turned in her direction but almost immediately became blind as they saw the blue uniforms. She could almost taste the fear of those around her. There would be no aid from that source. Thank the gods she'd managed to deliver at least part of her message before Ceorl's untimely arrival. The King of Gondor might still be ignorant of Eomer's existence, but hopefully he would respond to Eothain's request. If she now faced imprisonment and perhaps torture, then so be it. Her loyalty would ever belong to the true King of Rohan.


	27. The two kings

_A/N: One again, my grateful thanks to everyone who takes the time to send me lovely reviews. You guys are truly wonderful, and the encouragement is much appreciated._

**Chapter 27 – The two kings**

There were eyes and ears everywhere. Right now that suited Faramir. Let them look at him. Let them sneer. What did he care? He curled his fingers around the neck of his brandy bottle, took a long swallow and then staggered further along the hallway.

"By the gods, she will see me now!" he hollered, bumping into a tall nobleman as he headed towards the Queen's bedchamber. He peered up at the man, and saw him wince as the full force of his alcohol-laden breath hit him in the face. "We were betrothed," he said, poking the man hard in the chest. "And not just betrothed, but in love."

"My Lord Faramir," the man said, frowning as brandy slopped down his brocade tunic. "Do you not think you have had enough to drink?" He reached for the bottle, only for Faramir to snatch it away.

"Enough?" Faramir belched loudly. "I have not even begun to have enough." He rolled away from the man, and found his passage blocked by two of Ceorl's personal guards. "Kindly let me pass, gentlemen. I have an appointment with the Queen."

The two men exchanged amused looks. "No, Lord Faramir. You do not."

He peered up at them, all humour wiped from his face. "Get out of my way. I will speak with her now."

"We cannot let you do that. Her Majesty is… indisposed."

"Indisposed?" Faramir spluttered. "Does she take me for a fool? I will see her." He glanced round and noted with satisfaction that his behaviour was drawing a great deal of attention. It was not yet enough, though. Focusing back on the guards, he suddenly lurched forward, aiming for the gap between them. A gap that suddenly wasn't there. The air was knocked from his lungs as he collided with a wall of solid flesh. "How dare you? Do you not know who I am?"

Strong hands wrapped around his biceps, pulling him close. The guard that held him leaned his face alongside Faramir's, hissing into his ear. "Desist from this foolishness now. You disgrace the queen and you embarrass yourself and Ithilien."

He glanced over his shoulder. That was better. All eyes were now turned to him, including those of the guards at the far end of the hallway. Had they been distracted for long enough? His gaze swept swiftly across the door to Aragorn's quarters, and then towards the stairs. A hooded figure stood in the shadow. Their eyes met for the briefest of moments and then the man was gone.

Faramir allowed himself a moment of quite triumph. His plan had hardly been original, but it had served its purpose. Aragorn was skilled at moving through a crowd unobserved, but even he could not exit through a watched doorway. Now, though, the king would be able to slip away from Edoras without anyone noticing, while all he had to do was extricate himself from the situation without giving his entirely sober state away. He pulled away from the guard, deliberately stumbling as he did so. Hands reached for him, and as he twisted away he quite unintentionally lost his balance. He sat down hard on his backside. The bottle jerked from his hands, rolled across the floor and came to rest at the hem of a dress that was suddenly, terrifyingly, familiar.

"Eowyn?" He jerked his head up and found himself looking at pained blue eyes in a face that was far too pale. His heart leapt at the sight of her, even as he felt a rush of dismay at how drawn she looked. She was standing in the doorway of her chamber, but she gave no sign that she was pleased to see him. Hardly surprising since he was sitting on the floor, reeking of drink and apparently in less than perfect control of both his body and his mouth. The shock of her sudden appearance began to wear off. Damnation. Why now? It was the one thing he had hoped wouldn't happen. The one thing he had believed would not happen because of the way every attempt he had made to see her had been blocked.

Beside her was Ceorl, his hand protectively resting on her arm. He gazed down at Faramir with contempt, and then leaned towards Eowyn, whispering loud enough for all to hear. "So, this is what you were to marry?" Faramir scrambled to his feet, but before he could respond to the insult Ceorl stooped and picked up the brandy bottle. "I believe this is yours, Lord Faramir." He held it out, the neck of the bottle between his thumb and forefinger as though he was holding something distasteful and did not wish to soil himself more than necessary.

Faramir met Ceorl's disdainful gaze, and knew that he had gambled and lost. Of course, Eowyn would appear now. Ceorl must've heard the commotion and had seen it as an opportunity to humiliate him. He had fallen into a trap of his own making. The role of a drunk was not one he could discard now. Aragorn would still be within the walls of Edoras, and while none would prevent the King of Gondor from leaving, it would raise far too many questions were he to wish to do so alone. No, Aragorn had to depart the city unobserved and incognito, and in order to do that, he had to ensure that Ceorl did not become suspicious and close the gates before Aragorn was through them. He owed that much to the young woman who had risked herself to deliver the message from Eothain.

Eowyn was looking at him now. For a moment his emotions warred with his duty, and he did not know how to respond. Then slowly he reached out and took the bottle from Ceorl, allowing a bitter laugh to escape as he did so. He held her gaze, his eyes begging for her forgiveness as he spoke the words his role forced upon him. "Recent events have left me no choice but to take comfort where I can find it."

She flinched. Was it at the bitterness of his words or at the pressure of Ceorl's fingers on her arm? Her chin tilted. Oh Eowyn. Beautiful, beautiful Eowyn. Even now she stole his breath away. "Lord Faramir…" she began.

Ceorl interrupted. "Do not waste your time on this drunken fool, your Majesty." His hand moved from her arm to her shoulder, a gesture far too intimate for Faramir's liking.

"Perhaps the Queen can decide for herself whether or not to waste time… on a fool." He pinned her with his gaze, the pain of her apparent betrayal of him, of his love, winning its battle to be voiced.

"Of course," Ceorl said. "Your Majesty, do you have anything to say before I ask these gentlemen to escort the prince back to his rooms. For his own safety, of course."

Faramir frowned. Was that a glimmer of fear in Eowyn's eyes. Surely not. This was the Shield Maiden of Rohan who had stood up to the Witch King. What could possibly cause such a reaction, however, swiftly hidden?

Eowyn was looking at him now, all emotion once again wiped from her face. "You would have no need to seek comfort in a bottle, Lord Faramir, had you but heeded the words I wrote to you."

It was his turn to flinch. He inclined his head in mock respect. "Had I truly believed that I was not welcome here…"

"You are not," Ceorl snapped. "Your presence is tolerated because it is not in our interest to challenge the King of Gondor on his choice of companion."

Faramir turned his attention back to Eowyn. "You wish me to leave?"

She stared at him for a long moment. "With all my heart, yes."

It was like a dagger in his soul. He could not bring himself to speak another word. Clutching the bottle to his chest, it was not difficult to pretend to stagger away. His knees seemed genuinely close to trembling. How could she dismiss him so cruelly? So publicly? He pushed past the gathered crowd, sensing the mix of pity and contempt. The attention he'd eagerly sought a few moments earlier clung to him like a millstone, making every step seem like a mile. The play acting was over. Now he truly wished to be alone with the brandy.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0

It was almost dark when Aragorn reached Eothain's encampment. The eored was busy with the evening meal. Small groups of men were gathered around separate fires, talking quietly as they dined on wild rabbit and the hard, biscuit-like bread that they carried with them. He made no attempt to hide his face, and several men greeted him politely as he passed through their midst. Drawing close to the centre of the camp, he came upon a group of prisoners sitting with hands bound, their ankles tethered to a large wooden stake. They stared up at him, and he heard one murmur his name. Eager to reach Eothain, he decided not to waste time enquiring about their presence now. No doubt he would discover who they were soon enough.

When finally he stepped into the dimly lit interior of Eothain's tent, he was surprised to find it crowded. There were at least ten riders crammed into the small space, and he could barely move more than a couple of steps from the doorway.

"Your Majesty, welcome," Eothain said, pushing past several men to reach him. "We were beginning to fear you had not received the message."

"Leaving Edoras unobserved was not easy," Aragorn replied. "Pray tell me what has happened that you felt the need to summon me."

"The girl did not tell you?" Eothain asked.

Someone spoke from the far corner of the tent before he could respond. "I am the reason you were summoned, Aragorn." He peered into the shadows, a shiver of disbelief dancing down his spine. That voice was so familiar, and yet it could not be. And then the crowd parted before him as a tall figure pushed towards the front. No. Surely his eyes were deceiving him. He took in the blonde hair. The hazel eyes. The slightly embarrassed smile. "Eomer?"

"Aye, it is me."

For a moment, he was transfixed by shock. No. It could not be. Eomer was dead. Tomorrow was his funeral and yet it looked liked Eomer. Sounded like Eomer. By the gods, it was Eomer. Suddenly he was moving. The need to touch, to drive away all doubt overwhelming. He pulled the younger man into a tight bear hug. "You're alive. Truly alive?" The feel of solid muscle and warm flesh told him it was so, and yet still he couldn't really believe it. A ripple of amusement rolled through the man he was holding.

"Aye, Aragorn, although I may not be for much longer if you do not allow me to breathe."

With a laugh, Aragorn relinquished the tight grasp he'd had, but not the physical contact. He reached up, cupped Eomer's face in his hands, and drew the young man's head down so their foreheads were touching. "It is good to see you, brother."

"And to see you," Eomer said, placing his hands against Aragorn's cheeks in the intimate, if somewhat ancient, style of greeting.

When they finally broke away from one another, Aragorn was not at all surprised to find the other occupants of the tent grinning at them. He smiled, not caring that he had made his feelings for their king quite plain. Eomer had become one of his dearest friends. His return was a most precious gift. Indeed, he knew that he too was grinning. Now, however, his gaze caught sight of a young woman whom he had not noticed before. Her face seemed familiar, but he could not name her. He bowed his head in acknowledgement, and was amused to see the open affection that stole onto Eomer's face as he too looked at her. "Do we know one another my lady?"

"This is Lothiriel, Princess of Dol Amroth," Eomer said, before she had chance to introduce herself. He took her hand, drawing her forward. "Both my freedom and my life would no doubt have been taken from me had she not come to my aid with Elfhelm."

"Now I know why I recognise your face," Aragorn said to Lothiriel. "Although when last we met you were little more than sixteen summers old." He smiled as he noticed that Eomer still had hold of her hand. So, the princess had not only helped to save his life, but had captured his heart. The notion pleased him. It was high time that Eomer found himself a queen, and he could do far worse than to strengthen the ties between Dol Amroth and Rohan by wedding Imrahil's daughter.

She curtseyed. "It is an honour to meet you again, King Elessar."

Elfhelm stepped forward now, worry deepening the lines on his face. "Excuse me, your Majesty, but the young woman who bought the message to you - do you know what became of her?"

"He speaks of Erika," Eomer said by way of explanation. "The other person to whom I am deeply indebted."

Aragorn frowned, remembering the brief interaction he'd had with her. "I'm afraid not, but I fear things may not have gone well with her. No sooner had she told me of Eothain's summons then Ceorl arrived and she was dragged from my presence."

"Ceorl." Elfhelm said the name as though it was the foulest of curses. "If he has her…"

Eomer reached out and gripped his arm. "If that is so, we will get her back. You have my word on it."

Elfhelm's eyes blazed as he responded. "I do not doubt your word, Eomer, but know that it is almost more than I can bear to think of her in his clutches. If he harms a single hair on her head I will exact revenge upon him such as no man has ever borne witness too."

Aragorn laid his hand over Eomer's, which was still resting on Elfhelm's arm. "You have my pledge too that all will be done to ensure your lady's safety," he said. "I am only sorry that I could not aid her at the time." Elfhelm nodded brusquely, and then pulled away. Aragorn returned his attention to Eomer. "It would appear there is much to discuss."

"To discuss and to plan," Eomer said, his face grim now.

"Indeed," Aragorn replied. "And though I am anxious to hear of all that has befallen you, I am sure that you are all the more anxious to hear news of Edoras and your sister." He glanced over his shoulder, sliding easily into the role of commander. "Eothain, have one of your men bring food and ale. It is going to be a long night."

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Ceorl paced fretfully before the fire. The green flames hissed and spat, matching his mood. He paused before the hearth, snarling at the shimmering image of his mother. "She becomes ever more difficult. If it were not for that drunken idiot of a prince I doubt I could control her."

"Then you must see to it that you have another means of controlling her when he leaves," Galwyn said.

He clenched his fists, wishing for an outlet for his irritation. How could she remain so calm? Did she not understand what was happening? He glared into the flames. "Would you have me use another one of your potions?"

Her tone was as patient as ever, making him feel that he was once again a child at her knee. "No, my love, nothing so crude as that."

"What then?"

"Wed her as soon as this sham of a funeral is over. Then get her with child before the moon wanes."

"How will that give me control over her? Will she not hate me even more?"

"She may hate you, Ceorl, but the child will be her blood kin, and there is nought as strong as the maternal instinct. Of that I can assure you."

He froze as he grasped the twisted nature of her proposal. "Are you suggesting that I threaten harm to the child? My child?"

"Do not be so emotional, my love. The child will not be yours until it is birthed and the mother buried beside the rest of her ignoble family. Until then, think of it merely as a pawn that you can use to secure the throne of Rohan and revenge our family against the House of Eorl."

He paced some more. Shocked by the notion, and yet seeing the sick logic behind it. There was one flaw though. "She will never wed me willingly. Her obedience is given grudgingly to me now only because that cur of a prince is here and she knows I have the power to end his pitiful life with either potion or arrow."

"Then she must continue to think you have such power until you have ensnared her further with the child."

"Let her believe I have sent an assassin to Ithilien?" He liked that idea. Wished that he could make it a reality.

"It does not have to be make believe, my love. I will go to Ithilien. Your pretty little queen will not be so headstrong when the flames show her beloved prince drinking from a cup taken from my hand."

First Eomer. Now Faramir. Would it work? He doubted it. Eowyn was a shield maiden of Rohan. Sooner or later she would put her country before her desire to protect those she loved. It was only the hope that her brother would escape that had kept her obedient so far. Galwyn was wrong to think that they could use the same weapon twice. However, the thought of Eomer bought a more pressing concern to mind. His hand dropped to the hilt of his sword, his fingers rubbing over the jewelled metal as he spoke. "There is something else, you should know. I sent men along the north road. They have not returned."

"Calm yourself. You see shadows at every turn."

"With reason!" His agitation grew. "You still cannot see what approaches Edoras, yet you insist it is nought. How can it be, though? If Eomer is dead, would not word have reached us? Selred would have crowed such news from the heights. My own men would have returned to claim their reward. Instead all that comes is silence, missing men and a bright light that you say is hope reborn. Do not speak to me of shadows, woman!"

The flames hissed and spat. Sparks showered across the flagstones of the hearth. "Would you lose your nerve now? After all we've achieved? The throne is within your grasp, Ceorl. Do not let a ghost steal it from you."

"It was no ghost in the king's chamber earlier."

Galwyn's face warped as she grimaced. "What do you mean?"

"There was a young woman in Elessar's chamber. She claims to be a widow seeking service in his household."

"You do not believe her?"

"There is something… familiar about her."

'Then question her, and if you still suspect she is not who she claims to be, get rid of her. Rohan has widows enough. It will not miss this one. Now, enough of this foolish fear! Tomorrow all will believe Eomund's son has been buried with his forefathers. Then you can bed his sister and mingle our bloodline with hers just as Grima desired. Everything we've worked for will be ours. Everything, Ceorl."

"Everything," he repeated softly, his mind turning to the pleasurable thought of claiming his conjugal rights. "Yes. All will be mine."

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"I must return to Edoras," Aragorn said, noting how low the candles were burning now. He reached out and grasped Eomer's arm. "All will be prepared. On that you can rely, my friend."

Eomer nodded, his face grim and weary. "There is one more thing I would ask of you before you leave."

"Yes?"

"I would have you speak to some men who were taken prisoner earlier today."

"Ah yes, I had meant to ask about them, but the shock - and the pleasure - of seeing you alive drove it from my mind."

Eomer smiled, but there was regret in his eyes. No doubt for the pain inflicted on those who believed him dead. "It wasn't your fault," Aragorn added.

Eomer nodded slightly, and continued on. "They were sent from Edoras to ensure that I did not reach the city. Fortunately Master Eothain's men reached me first."

"They would've attacked and killed you?" Aragorn's stomach twisted at the thought of such treason.

"Come with me," Eomer said, rising to his feet. "And you will see why."

Together they stepped into the cold night air. Eomer led the way to the huddled group of prisoners. Immediately they turned to look at him, their eyes narrowed with contempt.

"'Tis the imposter," one said. He spat at Eomer, the glob of spittle falling at the king's feet.

Eomer frowned, and when he looked at Aragorn there was distress in his eyes. "Ceorl has filled their heads with lies. They believe me an imposter, and no matter what I say…"

Aragorn raised his hand, silencing Eomer. "I sense that more than words have been used here. They are tainted with dark magic." He saw the alarm in Eomer's eyes. "Do not worry, it is nothing more than a small charm designed to make them more perceptible to lies and half truths."

"Can it be undone?"

"Let us find out," he replied. He turned to the prisoners. "Men of Rohan, do you know who I am?" All eyes turned to him, but no one spoke. "Come, I know that at least one amongst you does for I heard you speak my name when I passed earlier."

The men exchanged looks, then one of them spoke. "You are Aragorn, Son of Arathorn, now known as Elessar, King of Gondor."

"And if you know my name, you know that I am not a man who lies. Is that not so?" A disgruntled murmur rippled through the group. "Is that not so?" Aragorn said with more force.

"Aye," murmured the man that had identified him.

"Is he alone in this sentiment?" Aragorn let the awkward silence serve as an encouragement for the other men to give their consent. Once they had done so, he gestured to Eomer. "This man that stands before you is no imposter. You have been lied to. Your minds have been confused by clever words and dark forces. Look upon him and see clearly now. This is your king. Eomer, Son of Eomund. Once Third Marshall of the Mark, now King of Rohan. Open your eyes, I say, and see the truth." The leader of the group looked up at Eomer, his expression surly. His voice barely audible, Aragorn breathed soft elvish words into the air, and then smiled as he saw the man's features change from ill-tempered to confused.

"Can it truly be the king?" the man said. He turned puzzled eyes to his companions. "Can it be that we were deceived? That this is no imposter…"

"If the King of Gondor says it is so," another said, fear in his voice. "Who are we to doubt it?"

"Elessar would not lie to us," a third added. "He knows Eomer better than many Rohirrim."

The first man whirled back to face Eomer. Moments later he was on his knees. "Your Majesty. Forgive me."

Eomer looked stunned as the others followed suit. Aragorn brushed a hand lightly against his back, leaning close as he spoke. "It was but a crude charm that blinded them to the truth. Now, though, you must decide what to do with them."

Eomer nodded. His face stern he looked down at the prostrate prisoners, quivering before him. "Men of Rohan," he said. "To whom do you pledge your allegiance? To your king? Or to the pretender, Ceorl?"

"To you, sire," came back the reply, fervent and in unison.

"And will you obey the orders of Master Eothain if I place you under his command?"

"We will not fail you, sire. Please, we beg of you, forgive us. Let us prove our worth."

"Very well." Eomer beckoned to the guard that was standing by, watching all that had taken place with a keen interest. "Release these men."

"Sire?" His eyes widened in surprise. "They are oath breakers."

Eomer half turned. "No, you cannot break an oath to a dead man. I will not hold them accountable for not discerning that I lived when all evidence suggested otherwise. Release them. I will tell Eothain he has some new recruits."

"Yes, Sire."

Aragorn stepped forward again. "Until tomorrow, brother." He clasped Eomer's forearm in farewell.

"Thank you," Eomer said, returning the salute. "For everything."


	28. The return

_A/N: My thanks as always to all you generous folks out there who are reviewing. kiss, kiss. Just a couple of replies:_

_Lindahoyland: Aragorn is very bad not to have commented about Eomer's arm. I shall tell him so and attempt to rectify that. _

_Athelea63: Sorry about the formatting. I was having trouble getting to show me a preview before posting, so finally just went ahead and posted without it. If anyone knows how to make a guaranteed line break I'd be grateful. I've tried various things, but they just seem to disappear if they aren't added in the preview stage. Sorry about being so mean to Faramir – in my stories everyone gets to suffer. 'Tis only fair. ;-)_

_Frigg: Hi. I've enjoyed your stories. Sorry, I'm terrible at reviewing 'cos I tend to sneakily read stuff at work when I should be doing other things. Me bad._

**Chapter 28 – The return**

Erika stared at the tray that had been delivered to her cell. The food she could easily ignore, even though her stomach rumbled with hunger. The jug of water was far more tempting. Her mouth was dry and her body craved fluids. No. She would not risk it. The memory of Eomer's suffering was still raw, and she had no desire to discover first hand what it was like to be poisoned. She could survive a while longer without nourishment. Rescue would come, wouldn't it? Surely Elfhelm would not leave her…

The rattle of a key in the lock put an end to her contemplation. Moments later the door opened and Ceorl strode into the cell. She was sitting on a low bench, and now she pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders and pressed her back against the wall, grateful for its solidity. His gaze went to the untouched meal.

"No appetite, my lady?"

She attempted indignation. "I meant no harm in seeking out the king. Why have you imprisoned me?" She looked past him at the two guards who had followed him into the cell and who now stood either side of the doorway. Escape was impossible.

Ceorl moved closer. His fingers gripped her chin, and he turned her face first to the right, and then to the left. "I have met you somewhere before."

"As I said, you must have seen me in the kitchen."

She had no warning of the slap. One moment she was looking up at him. The next she was sprawled on the floor at his feet, her cheek stinging and her palms grazed from where her hands broken her fall. His fingers tangled into her hair and she was pulled to her feet.

"Who are you? A name. Now."

Her mind was spinning. What to tell him. Half truths? Lies? Or the truth? Did he already know that Eomer was still alive? She glared at him, trying to decide what path to take, but as she did so, recognition lit up his face.

"I know that look," he said, tugging on her hair so her head was forced painfully back. "You are from the northern villages."

"Aye," she said, deciding it was best not to lie about geography. He could too easily catch her out. "Does that solve your mystery, then? That you know me from there?"

His eyes narrowed to slits as he studied her. "Your name, woman. Now."

Her eyes were watering from the painful grip he had of her hair. "Erika. My name is Erika." What did it matter if he knew her? He had no proof that she was anything other than what she claimed to be. "Perhaps you do know my face. There was a harvest celebration two summers past. You were there, but I did not think you noticed me."

"Erika." He repeated thoughtfully, and then released his grip. She gratefully straightened her head, relieved that her name did not seem to mean anything to him. He watched her for a few moments and then paced away, throwing words over his shoulder. "Do you not think it odd that someone from the northern villages should be found in the chambers of the King of Gondor at such a time as this?" She stared blankly at his back. Abruptly he turned. "What message did you carry to him?"

"Message?" Her heart was beating fast, adrenaline flowing through her. Once again she glanced at the door, wishing she could flee. "The only message I bore was my own. That I sought work…" A second slap caught her across the face. This time she stumbled, but did not fall. "Why do you not believe me? What is it you think I know?"

"Who did you travel to Edoras with?"

"No one." She rubbed at her stinging cheek.

Ceorl's expression sharpened. "You did not perhaps travel with a Gondorian woman and a Rohirrim?"

"No. I told you. I travelled alone."

He stepped towards her, pushing her roughly against the wall, his fingers of his right hand curling around her neck, squeezing her throat. "And you did not, I suppose, travel with a man who claimed to be king?"

Her vision was beginning to turn hazy, and she couldn't answer even if she wanted to. The pressure on her throat increased and it was all she could do to drag enough air into her lungs to remain conscious. Then abruptly he let her go. She fell to the floor, coughing as air flowed down her abused windpipe. Ceorl stared down at her, his face now an expressionless mask. Somehow she managed to find her voice. "I… don't know… what you're… talking about."

He gave a derisive snort. "I think you know exactly what I speak of, but it matters not. Let Eomer come. I will do what others have attempted and failed." He leaned over her, his spittle flecking her face as he spoke. "He will die. And so will any who have attempted to aid him."

The threat was clear enough. She tilted her chin defiantly. "Death holds no fear for me."

He sneered at her. "Indeed not. In fact I should imagine you will welcome it long before my men have finished using you in whatever way they see fit." His fingers wrapped into her hair again and he twisted her head to one side so he could examine her profile. "Yes, a very pretty gift you will make for them at the celebration tomorrow."

One of the guards stepped forward, his gaze raking hotly down her body. "Perhaps we should try the goods now."

Ceorl smiled coldly as Erika attempted to shy away. "Patience," he murmured. "Let her spend the night contemplating her fate. The taking of her will be so much sweeter when the long dark hours of fear have had time to tenderise her spirit."

Moments later the door closed on her. She huddled into a corner, tugging her shawl tightly around her. Across the room sat the tray of food. If it had been poisoned, she would now have welcomed it gladly.

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It was time. Eowyn stepped from behind the screen and watched as Ceorl took in her outfit. Apparently he approved because he nodded slightly before giving her another up and down look.

"You look beautiful," he said. "One might almost say bridal."

She frowned at that. The care she had taken in choosing a dress and braiding her hair was out of respect for Eomer. If the worst came to the worst and she did indeed end up marrying Ceorl she would wear sackcloth rather than the soft woollen dress that Eomer, who admittedly had drunk rather a lot of ale at the time, had once declared his favourite. "Just one thing," Ceorl said as he stepped forward and used his index finger to lift her necklace away from her skin. "What is this?"

"It's a horse's tooth," she replied, tugging the necklace's leather thong from him.

"Surely you have something more fitting?"

"It was a gift," she snapped. "From Eomer." He'd been barely fourteen summers old, and she had thought him quite mad when he'd presented it to her during the harvest celebration. She'd laughed at him, and he'd stomped off in a temper, declaring that he had not known what else to give her to mark the feast day as their uncle did not see fit to give them money nor an opportunity to earn coins of their own. Only later did Theodred inform her it was the first milk tooth to be shed by the young horse Eomer had been tasked with caring for, and that most Rohan riders considered such a thing to be precious. Dismayed at her foolishness she had sought her brother out, apologised for her uncouth behaviour and given him a garland of wild flowers by way of recompense. He gallantly wore the garland for the rest of the celebration, bravely ignoring the teasing of the other young lads at court who thought it highly amusing that he should appease his sister in such a manner. Now she met Ceorl's gaze. "I own no piece of jewellery that is more fitting."

Ceorl's lips tightened, and for a moment she thought he would argue with her. They both knew that her jewellery box contained far more precious items - a necklace of smooth green glass that once belonged to her mother, a stand of fine silver links given to her by Gimli, and several other items. However, he merely inclined his head, caught her by the arm and began to escort her towards the Golden Hall.

A hush fell as they entered the hall. As she approached the shroud-wrapped body in the centre of the crowd, people bowed reverentially. Her eyes met those of Faramir, but he almost immediately looked away, apparently preferring to stare at the ground rather than to look at her. She could not blame him for that. His treatment at her hands had been most cruel. Moving on she walked past Aragorn. As King of Gondor, it would normally have been correct for her to make obeisance to him. Today, however, he bowed to her as the grieving sister of a fallen monarch. Yet as he did so, he did not lower his eyes. Odd. She stared at him, trying to read the rather strange expression on his face. Was he trying to tell her something? And if so what? Her gaze swept around the rest of the crowd. Many of the dignitaries were unknown to her - only the style of their clothing telling her that they were from Gondor or Ithilien or Dol Amroth. A tall man with grey eyes bowed. She immediately recognised him from Theoden's funeral. Prince Imhiril, father of Lothiriel and, judging from the distressed look on his face, yet another person who had held her brother in high regard.

Her slow steps finally led her to the body. The ceremony within the Golden Hall was a simple one. All she had to do was recite a traditional prayer of thanksgiving, and then they would depart in a procession to the mounds east of Edoras where mere weeks earlier she had attended the burials of her cousin and her uncle. She glanced around as she prepared to speak. Did they not wonder at the lack of tears on her cheeks? Did none of them not suspect that she was about to utter a sacred prayer for a man she did not know? That Eomer was out there somewhere. Though whether dead or alive…

Tell them. She should tell them. Her gaze shifted upwards to the archers hidden in the shadows above the heads of her guests. No, she could speak nothing but the words of the prayer. Any deviation would bring down death. Nor could she speak when they left the Golden Hall for Ceorl had warned her that his archers would follow, ostensibly as an honour guard, but in reality as a leash around her neck. Fixing her eyes on a distant point, she began. The hall was completely silent except for the well-rehearsed words tumbling from her mouth one after another.

Suddenly, there was a ripple towards the back of the hall, near the outer door, and then a male voice cut across her own.

"This is a little premature, don't you think?"

Eowyn froze. Stared down the hall into the beam of light that blazed from an upper window. There was a murmuring of barely restrained gasps as soft footfalls approached. And then a figure stepped out of the dazzling light. Long blonde hair. Beard. More gaunt than she remembered, and yet…

"Eomer?" His name was on her lips, even as the danger registered. Her gaze swung up to the archers. "Eomer. No!" Her dear, foolish brother. He'd walked right into the very heart of danger. She turned towards Ceorl, desperately trying to think of a way to prevent him from giving the order that would bring down death, and yet knowing it was impossible. She saw Ceorl raise his arm, and heard the words.

"Tis the imposter. Kill him."

"No!" she cried again, stumbling forward. Expecting to hear the hiss of arrows. The thud of metal and wood biting into flesh.

Nothing happened.

She jerked to a halt. Looked wildly round. Eomer was still approaching. Slowly, steadily… and unharmed. She stared at the soft leather tunic that covered his chest. There were no arrows embedded there. No blossoming blood stains. Ceorl gave a cry of rage as Aragorn and Faramir stepped out of the crowd and fell in step behind Eomer, one behind his right shoulder, one behind his left. "Kill them," he howled. "Kill them all."

Above her head, Eowyn saw the blue liveried archers standing now the front of the balcony, arrows knocked and ready. "Look out! Faramir! Eomer!" They were going to die. And she was powerless to stop it. No, please, no.

"Peace, sister," Eomer said, with a calmness that confused her. "There will be no massacre here today."

Wanting to believe him, but barely able to do so, she looked up again. And saw the familiar face of Eothain looking down at her. Next to him was another face she knew. Elfhelm! And then another. And another. By the gods, it was Eomer's eored that stood above the crowd, not Ceorl's henchmen. How had…? The question remained incomplete as the sibilant hiss of a sword warned her of danger. She sensed Ceorl's advance, rather than saw the action.

"Eowyn!" Eomer shouted her name, but she was already moving. Ceorl's hand snatched at her arm. His fingers folded around fabric, and there was a ripping sound as she pulled away. He was left holding the torn sleeve of her dress in one hand, and his sword in the other. Denied her as a hostage he turned his sword towards Eomer, his gaze racing over the gathered crowd as he pointed the tip towards Eomer's chest.

"He is an imposter, I tell you. Listen to me. All of you! It is nought but witchcraft that makes you see the likeness of a dead king. This man is not him."

"That is not true," Eowyn shouted. "Long have I known my brother still lived. Now he is here, standing amongst you." She dropped to her knees. "Hail, Eomer, King of the Mark." Glancing up her eyes met Faramir's. Pain cut through her as she saw hurt and uncertainty, which was swiftly masked as he turned his attention from her. There was so much to explain. So much to ask forgiveness for. Now was not the time, though. This moment belonged to Eomer.

The crowd shifted uneasily, bemused faces turned towards the unfolding scene, and confused whispers rolling from one person to another. Eomer's hand dropped to the hilt of his own sword. Almost leisurely he drew it from its scabbard, holding it up so that all could see the fine craftsmanship and, more importantly, so that those who knew him could see it was Guthwine that he held. Deliberately he looked past Ceorl to the throne at the back of the hall. "You are standing in my way, Ceorl, Sister-Son of Grima Wormtongue." Another shocked rush of sound raced through the crowd. Eomer took a step forward, his face challenging. "Move aside… unless you can offer some reason not to do so."

Ceorl shrank back. Fear on his face. He stared at Eomer, and then suddenly his expression turned sly. "Do you expect me to simply relinquish the throne to you, Eomer, Son of Eomund?" His eyes flicked to Faramir and then to Aragorn. "I cannot deny that you give the appearance of strength with a king and a prince at your back, but what of the strength of your arm?"

Eomer stopped. "My arm is strong enough for the likes of you."

Eowyn winced. It was obvious that Ceorl could see what she could - that Eomer was not in the best of health. There was a pallor to his skin that she had rarely seen, and certainly not since he'd become Third Marshall and taken to spending much of his time outdoors on horseback. Also, he seemed… wearied. The spark of vital energy that made all eyes turn to him whenever he entered a room had been dampened. By what she could not imagine, but it was clear that Eomer's time away from Meduseld had been physically gruelling.

Ceorl's lips thinned into a tight smile. "Let us put that to the test. I declare you unfit to rule, Eomer, Son of Eomund, and I hereby claim the right to try for the throne of Rohan through combat."

"You would fight me?" Eomer sounded surprised, but Eowyn caught a glint in his eye that alerted her to the fact that all was not as it seemed.

Ceorl lowered his sword and walked boldly up to Eomer now. "The second line of kings is ended. I have a right to challenge the first of a new line, as does any Rider of Rohan."

"You speak of ancient laws," Eomer replied. "But I accept your challenge."

"Eomer. No!" Eowyn could not remain silent. She stepped forward, intending to place herself between Ceorl and her brother, but then she saw the satisfied look on Eomer's face. The fool! This was what he had intended all along. He wanted to take on Ceorl in a duel. In which case, surely he must believe that he could win despite the fact that Ceorl was younger, clearly fitter, and possibly as a good a swordsman, if not better. She stared at Eomer and tried to convince herself a victory was possible. Tried to make herself believe that her brother had not returned to Edoras to simply sign his own death warrant.


	29. Battle for the throne

_A/N. You guys are spoiling me with all your lovely reviews. Thank you, all of you. Just one quick reply to Katzilla:_

_I'm very much looking forward to reading Twilight. I read the first couple of chapters, but then life got a bit hectic and so I've been waiting for a chance to sit down and give the story the time that it deserves. You weave such a lot of wonderful detail into your stories, it isn't one I want to just skim through._

_To everyone else – hope this chapter lives up to expectations!_

**Chapter 29 – Battle for the throne**

So at last it had come to this. A battle. Nay, a duel. Eomer welcomed it, even as he weighed the risk and accepted that his life could be forfeit if he but made the slightest mistake. Silent now, the crowd cleared a space for the fight. He undid the clasp that held his borrowed cloak around his shoulders. Shrugging it off he turned and handed it to Aragorn.

"You do not have to do this," Aragorn whispered. "The throne is rightfully yours. None will support this traitor against you now."

Eomer glanced around the hall, taking in the faces of the many Rohirrim gathered there as well as the dignitaries from Rohan's neighbouring countries. "You are wrong, my friend. Too many lies have been spoken. Too much deceit spread. There must be no doubt that I have not only returned but laid claim to the throne in the time-honoured way so that no enemy of mine, present or future, will dare to question my authority."

"Theoden named you as heir, Eomer."

"And now I will prove that he was right to do so." Eomer grasped Aragorn's arm, drew him closer so that his lips were all but brushing the king's ear. "If things do not go well for me, see to it that Faramir takes Eowyn away from here. Promise me that, Aragorn. Promise me that she will still have a chance at happiness."

"Eomer…"

He shook his head in frustration, knowing that Aragorn still wished to persuade him from the path he had chosen. "Promise me!"

With a sigh, Aragorn conceded. "You have my word. Your sister will be safe."

Satisfied, Eomer turned away. Facing Ceorl, he once again held Guthwine before him, the blade catching the sunlight from the window. "For the House of Eorl," he said, offering the blade in salute to his opponent. "And for Rohan."

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No. Damn him. No. This was not what they had discussed. Lothiriel pressed her shoulder against one of the wooden pillars, grateful for its support as she looked down into the Golden Hall. Eomer's blade clashed against Ceorl's. Sparks showered around them. Both men grunted as they battled for dominance and then suddenly they spun away from each other - Ceorl with an easy grace, Eomer with somewhat less agility. This was foolishness. Complete foolishness.

Her hand folded around the bow that she was carrying. It had not been her intention to use it. Rather it had simply been a prop to help her blend in with the eored as they replaced Ceorl's guards one by one in a silent, but very effective assault of the Golden Hall. Now, though, she wished that her eyesight was such that she could trust herself to fire an arrow and hit Ceorl neatly between the eyes. That, however, was not a skill she possessed.

"Elfhelm." She pushed herself away from the pillar and, thanks to the trembling of her legs, all but staggered to his side. "You can end this. Why do you not act? Shoot Ceorl now."

His gaze remained on the fight below as he replied tersely. "Eomer needs to do this. You know that as well as I." He flinched, making her turn and look at the fight. No, dear gods, no. Ceorl was forcing Eomer back. Their blades met. Once. Twice. Eomer grunted and twisted away to the right, narrowly avoiding Ceorl's blade slicing across his back as the younger man followed the movement with his sword.

"Elfhelm!" Lothiriel did not care that there were tears on her cheeks. Did not care that she was begging. It was too much to simply stand and watch Eomer die after all they had been so. Suddenly Elfhelm's hands were on her shoulders, gripping her tight. His eyes were dark, angry.

"If you are to be his wife, you must learn not to show your feelings so openly. Stand strong for him now. And if you can, pray silently that the gods show him favour."

His words were like a slap to her face. Silently she nodded. He was right, of course. Eomer had to do this. He had to show his strength, his resolve. He had to not just be king, but had to become king in front of those he would lead. Elfhelm was right too in saying that she needed to show that she had the character required to be his queen, not just his mate. "Forgive me," she murmured, dashing away the tears. She turned from Elfhelm and clasped the edge of the balcony. White knuckled she made herself watch the deadly battle below.

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Ceorl had some skill with a blade. That Eomer could not deny as another nerve-clashing blow sent vibrations up through Guthwine, jarring his aching muscles and stealing his energy. He side-stepped to the right. Bought his own blade round and down. Welcomed the sound of Ceorl's angry grunt as he was forced back a step.

The advantage was short-lived. With a howl, Ceorl attacked again. Eomer blocked a blow aimed at his inner thigh. Stepped back and met a second that threatened to remove his head from his shoulders. Stepped back again and found himself wrong footed. Ceorl's blade scythed through the air with a malevolent hiss. And suddenly his right shoulder was aflame. His sword slipped from his grasp and skidded across the wooden floor as he fell back, a cry of pain ripping from his throat.

There was no time to think. No time to plan. Ceorl was approaching, death in his eyes. Eomer closed himself off to the hurt and threw himself at his sword. He rolled once, twice, and came up on his feet with Guthwine once more firmly in his grasp.

"How very disappointing," Ceorl mocked. "It seems we must fight on, although since you are now bleeding perhaps you would prefer to cede. I may be gracious enough to spare your life and merely exile you from Rohan as my uncle did before me."

Eomer gave the rapidly spreading bloodstain on his sleeve a cursory glance. The wound stung, but a quick flex of his fingers told him the injury was relatively superficial. Not that it really mattered how hurt he was since he had no intention of putting Ceorl's offer of mercy to the test. "It seems you share your uncle's inability to keep your tongue behind your teeth," he snarled, stepping forward once again.

Ceorl side-stepped, blade at the ready. "And it seems you share your uncle's inability to recognise a battle that cannot be won."

Sparks flew as their swords met again. With a grunt, Eomer threw his weight behind Guthwine. He had a slight advantage over Ceorl in terms of size, and he used it to full effect now as he forced the younger man back, first one step, then a second. Suddenly, though, Ceorl jerked his knee up. With a curse Eomer pulled his left hip back, narrowly avoiding a painful blow to the groin. Ceorl's blade screeched along the length of Guthwine as the younger man spun away. So Ceorl wanted to fight like a tavern brawler, did he? Fine. As a hot-headed angry young man, Eomer had had his fair share of drunken fights. Dirty tactics didn't bother him.

Eomer matched Ceorl's pace. Circling warily. Waiting for the right moment. And then suddenly he was under attack. He parried. Thrust. Blocked. Parried again. Sweat ran down his face, stinging his eyes, plastering his hair and his clothes to his skin. His breath came in hard, fast bursts. A grunt tore from his lungs as he blocked a particularly ferocious blow that would've severed his lower leg if it had made contact. A second thrust was aimed at his stomach, and as he evaded it, Ceorl suddenly slammed into him, bodily knocking him off-balance. He countered with a shove of his own. Cried out as his wounded shoulder impacted with Ceorl's, and then spun away. Damn. Off-balance he stumbled. Bought his sword up just in time to clumsily deflect a third blow. He staggered awkwardly to his right and threw up his left arm to regain his equilibrium. Too late he realised his mistake. Ceorl's sword came down hard against his forearm. Pain slammed up his arm into his shoulder. Horrified he pulled away. The sight of Ceorl's blade embedded in his flesh sent a wave of nausea through him, and then suddenly the sword pulled free. He clutched his arm across his chest, expecting to feel the sticky warmth of fresh blood. Instead… he glanced down, bemused. Ceorl's gaze followed. There was no blood. His tunic was sliced through and yet… his flesh was intact, protected by the sturdy wooden splint, which now bore a deep indent where Ceorl's blade had bitten into it.

Ceorl frowned, clearly confused. And Eomer suddenly realised he had the advantage. With a howl of outrage he launched himself forward, blade slicing through the air. From the left. From the right. Ceorl staggered backwards, unprepared for the ferocity of the attack. Apparently still unable to believe that Eomer's left arm was still attached to his body. Eomer let the physical pain of his abused body morph into anger and then turned the anger into energy as he struck again. And again. Desperately Ceorl tried to block the blows. One. Two. Three. The fourth rocked him backwards. The fifth knocked his sword from his hand. Eomer didn't hesitate now. Stepping forward he bought his right elbow sharply up, catching Ceorl beneath the chin. The rider fell backwards, and hit the ground hard, dazed and bleeding.

Breathing hard, Eomer leaned over him, Guthwine's tip resting lightly in the hollow of Ceorl's throat. "You're the one bleeding now," he said, taking in the blood that was running freely from Ceorl's split bottom lip. "Do you cede?"

Ceorl stared up at him as though unable to believe his ears. "Cede?"

Eomer pressed the tip of his sword down, watching almost with detachment as the skin beneath it indented. He could kill Ceorl now. Slit his throat and watch him bleed to death without feeling a pang of guilt. After all, there were worse ways to die. He knew that only too well thanks to Ceorl and Galwyn. Could, even now, still feel the residual effects of the poison on his body. He stared down at the traitor who had so nearly taken every thing from him. "Were I just a man, I would kill you without hesitation. Kill you gladly for all that you have done to me, and to those I care about." He glanced up at Eowyn. Saw the pained tension on her face. How much had she suffered while he'd been held prisoner? What had this cur put her through? The tip of his sword broke through skin, and he forced himself to draw back, to take a deep breath and rein in his emotions as he once again looked down at Ceorl. "All have now witnessed that I, Eomer, Son of Eomund, Sister-Son of Theoden, am King of Rohan, and as such I will see you given a trial so that you may answer for your crimes and be punished in a fair and just manner. So what say you? Do you cede to me?"

Ceorl's nod was barely susceptible. "Aye. I cede."

Eomer eased Guthwine an inch away from Ceorl's throat. "Say it louder, so that all may hear."

Ceorl coughed, clearing his throat before speaking. "I cede to you, Eomer, King of Rohan."

A weariness crashed over Eomer and he all but fell as he stepped away from Ceorl. It was over. Finally, it was over.

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Eowyn heard Ceorl's words but before tears of relief could spill, she watched in dismay as Eomer swayed badly, almost losing his balance. He was hurt. Perhaps more seriously than he seemed. Her gaze moved to the blood-dampened sleeve of his tunic, and her fear for him notched higher. "Eomer…" She started forward, but then saw Aragorn reach out to him, and reassured herself that there was no better healer than the King of Gondor. Eomer would be in safe hands there. Ceorl, on the other hand, would find that no one in Rohan would wish for any outcome from his trial other than complete and utter condemnation for all he had done.

She glanced at the man who had caused her such pain, frowning as she saw him slowly climbing to his feet. Eomer should've saved them all a lot of trouble and run him through. Her frown deepened as she watched him bend forward. For a moment she thought she'd imagine it, but then suddenly her throat constricted as she saw a sudden glint of sunlight on metal. He'd pulled a blade from the top of his boot. Small, but deadly. And from the dark expression on his face he clearly had every intention of plunging it into Eomer's unprotected back.

"No!" She was already moving as Ceorl lurched forward. Eomer began to look over his shoulder.

Too late. He would see too late. "Eomer," she screamed.

Desperately she stepped forward and saw a sheathed dagger positioned snugly in the belt of the man standing next to her. Reaching for it, her fingers curled around the jewelled hilt. She pulled it free. Glanced up. Unbelievably Ceorl was still moving unimpeded towards Eomer. Aragorn was only just turning to look. Faramir was striding forward. But they were all too far. Too far.

She pulled her arm back. And threw the dagger.

Ceorl arched his back as the blade imbedded itself in his body. Moments later he jerked like a string puppet as an arrow struck him in the chest. First one. Then a second. Then a whole volley came raining down from above, each one finding its mark. The knife fell from his hand and spun across the floor, coming to a halt at Eomer's feet.

Slowly Ceorl toppled sideways, hitting the ground with open, dead eyes.

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A cacophony of noise exploded in the Golden Hall as everyone began talking at once. Eomer disappeared from Lothiriel's view as people crowded around him. Turning from the balcony she ran to the stairway, conscious that Elfhelm was in front of her. The Marshall was taking the stairs two at a time, but when he reached the bottom he didn't turn towards the hall, but instead sprinted in the opposite direction.

Lothiriel barely gave his action a second though. She plunged through the doorway and began to battle her way through the crowd towards Eomer. At last, and not without some rather unladylike use of her elbows, she forced herself to the front of the group that was pressed tightly around him. He was sitting on a wooden chest, looking pale and more than a bit dazed. It was quite clear that he wasn't taking in a word anyone was saying to him. Could they not see that he needed peace and quiet, not a hundred questions about his miraculous return from the dead? Aragorn was doing his best to answer on Eomer's behalf, but even he looked somewhat overwhelmed by the barrage of sound.

She moved past the King of Gondor now, her voice low. "We need to get him out of here."

"Give them a few more minutes," Aragorn replied. "They need to see…"

She didn't hear what else he said because at that moment Eomer looked up at her. The utter weariness on his face almost undid her, but then he smiled weakly and suddenly she found herself laughing with relief. He held his hand out to her and she did not hesitate. Nor did she care that they had an audience. As she crossed the distance between them there was no one in the world except Eomer. She sat next to him, wrapped her arms around his neck as he leaned forward, and then pressed her face against his chest, not caring that he smelt of sweat and battle. He rested his forehead against the top of her hair, and a tremor ripped through his body as he sucked in a deep breath. Was he crying? It would not surprise her after all he had been through. Cautiously she drew away, and saw that she had been close to guessing correctly. His eyes were glittering with unspilled tears. Tears that he would no doubt prefer not to shed right now. She didn't know what to say. For a moment, didn't know what to do. But then she simply gave in to instinct. Leaning forward she kissed him. It was a tentative kiss, uncertain as she was that he was in a fit state to respond to her. Suddenly, though, he reached up with his left arm, tangled his fingers in her hair and pulled her towards him. The kiss he delivered in return sent a fire racing through her body.

"Lothiriel!" A very familiar voice cut through the silence that had descended on the Golden Hall.

Shocked, she pulled away from Eomer and jumped to her feet. Turning with as much dignity as she could muster, she all but flinched as she saw the stern look on her father's face. Prince Imrihil had pushed his way to the front of the crowd. Now he strode towards her, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword. She swallowed hard. Knew that she had breached just about every rule of court etiquette that could be imagined. As Eomer gave a weary groan, she took a small step to her right, placing herself firmly between him and her father. If anyone was going to be publicly berated, she would see to it that it was herself.

"Father," she began. "I can explain…"

She suddenly found herself wrapped in his arms. "By the gods, child, I have been beside myself with worry." He pushed her away again, holding her at arms length, his grey eyes studying her face. "It is good to see you well." With a suddenness that almost made her lose her balance, he pulled her to his chest again, hugging her fiercely. "You are well, are you not?"

"I am quite well," she murmured.

Imrihil released her with a relieved sigh, and turned his attention on Eomer. "As for you…"

"Father…"

"Silence, Lothiriel." Imrihil thrust out a hand towards Eomer. "As for you, young man, it is high time you let someone see to your wounds. You look terrible."

Relief washed across Eomer's face as he took the proffered hand and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. However, his expression turned serious as soon as he was upright. "Your Highness, about my behaviour with…"

Imrihil leaned forward, his whisper loud enough for Lothiriel to hear. "Hush now. There will be time enough on the morrow to discuss your impudence with my daughter." He turned away, but not before Lothiriel saw the mischievous smile on his lips. The rogue. He was clearly pleased for her. Tomorrow she would ensure she was present at any discussion as he was sure to milk the situation for all it was worth, and though Eomer was no doubt acquainted with her father's sense of humour having fought beside him, in this instance, she had no desire to allow him to suffer unduly.

"Make way for the king," a voice called out. She turned and found Eothain had cleared a path to the door, the eored now standing in two straight lines, forming an honour guard. With a weary smile, Eomer took her hand, and together they left the hall.

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Erika flinched as the door to her cell opened. It was the two guards. Big, ugly brutes. And both clearly well into their cups. She shrank against the wall as they leered at her. Please no.

"Celebration should be starting soon," the elder of the two said. "You're going to be a busy girl for the next few hours."

His companion sniggered. "Yeah, very busy. But we figure we deserve it a bit fresh, seeing how we've been sat down here in the dark watching over you all night. Don't see why we should wait no longer, do we?"

"No. Think we've waited long enough. Be doing the others a favour too. Break you in for them."

She wanted to spit defiance at them, but her mouth was as dry as a flour sack, and her heart was pounding so fast, it was all she could do to breathe. She looked round wildly, desperately seeking some means to defend herself even though she knew they was nothing in her cell that offered the least bit of protection. There was nowhere to hide. Nothing to use as a weapon. And they were too big for her to have any hope of making a run for it. She clenched her fingers into fists, felt her nails dig into her palms. There was no doubt that they would take her and use her in whatever way they saw fit, but she would not make it easy for them. If nothing else she would take skin from them.

The eldest one gave an evil laugh. "Oh, I think she wants to fight. Nothing I like more than taming a wild cat. Come to me, my pretty. I'm going to split you open with my…"

Erika gasped as the man's eyes suddenly bulged. He gave a shocked exhalation as his head jerked back. An arm snaked around his neck and he jerked again, arching his back. A familiar voice hissed into the dark. "Looks like you're the one who's split open." Shoved from behind, the guard slid to the ground. Behind him was Elfhelm, his bloodied sword in his hand. The second guard blanched, and foolishly tried to make a run for it. The hiss of Elfhelm's blade turned damp as it sliced across flesh. The man dropped to the floor, clutching desperately at his stomach. His agonised scream silenced by a second sweep of the sword. His eyes dark, face grimmer than she ever remembered, Elfhelm turned to Erika. "Are you alright? Tell me these animals had not touched you before I arrived."

She was trembling so badly she could barely stand. How could she possibly speak? Her gaze flicked from the dead men on the floor to Elfhelm and then back to the rapidly spreading pools of blood.

"Erika?" Elfhelm sheathed his sword and crossed the distance between them in two long strides. Gripping her shoulders, he studied her face, swearing at the sight of the bruises that she knew marked her cheek. Distress twisted his face into a forbidding mask. "I was too late. Damn them all to the fires of Mordor."

His pain finally restored her voice. "No, Elfhelm. No. You came in time."

He brushed the palm of his hand against her face, disbelief in his eyes.

"I suffered nought but a couple of slaps. You saved me, Elfhelm." A soft, semi-hysterical laugh escaped her. "Something you seem to make a habit of doing." She was pulled abruptly into his arms and all but crushed against his chest.

"Aye, but hopefully this was the last time you will be in need of rescue."

She relaxed against him, welcoming the feel of his arms around her. The smell of him filled her lungs – leather, horses, sweat. It was scent of safety. Of strength. By the gods, she loved this man. Abruptly, though, she realised the meaning behind his words. If this was the last time she would need rescue, then did that mean… "The king?" She pulled away and looked up at him, hope in her heart.

Elfhelm's eyes glittered with sudden tears. "Aye, lass. Eomer is restored to the throne."

"Thank the gods," she sighed, and attempted to lean back into his embrace. However, instead of welcoming arms, she found only stiffness and formality.

"There is much to do," he said. "Come. I will see that you are in safe hands. Then I must assist Eothain in ensuring that Edoras is secure."

"Of course." She stepped away from him, and took a moment to straighten her dress and regain her composure. It was only natural that mention of the king would turn his thoughts back to his duty. He was, first and foremost, a Marshall of the Mark. Did she not know him well enough by now to expect ought else? And yet the bite of disappointment at his action cut deep.

If he had not declared himself now, what hope was there that he would ever do so?


	30. Damage repairs

A/N: Once again my grateful thanks to everyone who has taken time out to not only read this story but send me a review. I adore writing, but it always makes me smile when I know that people are enjoying what I do. So, we're drawing towards the end now, but there's still a cliff hanger or two awaiting…

**Chapter 30 – Damage repairs**

Eowyn had wanted to speak to Faramir immediately. She desperately needed to explain herself. Instead she had been swept along by the eored, who seemed to feel the need to watch over both herself and Eomer. Only now, almost half a day later, was she able to make her escape.

It seemed very strange to walk alone through the halls of Meduseld. It frightened her to realise how quickly she had grown accustomed to being accompanied everywhere, watched by a dozen eyes, being forced to guard her every word. She had once told Aragorn she did not fear death, but only a cage. A shiver ran through her at the thought of how close she had come to such a fate.

With a determined sigh she set such thoughts aside. Eomer was returned. The throne of Rohan was once more his. And she was again free to pursue that which her heart desired. If he would still have her.

She stepped into the main hall and drew immediately to a halt as she saw her quarry. He was standing with his back to her, warming his hands at the fire that burned in the middle of the hall. His shoulders were slumped, and even from behind he looked tired. Discouraged.

"Faramir?"

He stiffened at the sound of his name, but did not turn. Slowly she moved to his side. She didn't look at him, but instead held her own hands out to the warmth of the flames. And suddenly flinched at the memory of emerald green visions. Of Eomer being beaten before her eyes. Of hatred and frustration. Her voice was soft when she spoke, the pain of the past few days held in check. "Faramir, you have to understand that everything I did, it was for Eomer. To keep him alive."

He glanced at her, and then turned his attention back to the fire. "Then Aragorn was right. He told me as much. Said it was the only thing that made sense of your actions."

"But you did not believe him?" She had feared as much. Faramir had suffered so much emotional abuse in his past, what else was he to do but imagine her rejection of him was real. Perhaps even in some way deserved. He didn't answer her question. Simply stared at the fire. "Faramir?"

"Was it really the only way? Did you not trust me to help?"

It was more an accusation than a question, and she flinched. "I did not trust myself." That got his attention. He turned, his expression quizzical. She sighed as she tried to find the words. "I tried to keep you away from Edoras, not because I did not believe you would come to my aid, but because I was afraid that if I was forced to choose…" She stopped, could not even now bring herself to say the words. Faramir refused to help her out, though. He simply waited for her to continue, the hurt in his eyes cutting deeper into her with every passing moment. "You know that I love my brother. But were I forced to choose between Eomer and Rohan, then ever would I choose Rohan. It would be what he would want, what he would demand of me. To do otherwise would dishonour my love for him. However, if I was forced to choose between all that was good and right for Rohan and the man that I long to call husband... May the gods forgive me, but I do not know that I could have made myself choose Rohan over Faramir of Ithilien."

"Eowyn…" he began, and then he simply shook his head and pulled her into his arms. All the doubts that had plagued him, even after Aragorn had told him of his suspicions that she was protecting Eomer with her actions, melted away like winter snow. She loved him. More than her brother. More than her country. Perhaps more than life itself.

"Can you forgive me?" she sobbed. "For protecting myself? For trying to protect you?"

"Eowyn, Eowyn," he murmured. He placed one finger beneath her chin and tilted her head upwards. "Do you not know that I would forgive you anything? Even unto death?" Slowly he leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers. "I love you. I did from the moment I first laid eyes upon you and I will until eternity itself comes to an end."

"And I you," she replied, moulding herself against him and lifting her head to cover his mouth with her own.

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This was a most unsatisfactory state of affairs. For the past two days, Lothiriel had barely laid eyes on Eomer. If she did not know better she would think her father's hand behind her frustration. It certainly seemed to be no coincidence that every time she and Eomer managed to be in the same room, one or other of them would almost immediately be summoned away by some pressing duty that could not be ignored. However, common sense told her that she should've expected such a turn of events. It was inevitable that Eomer's immediate attention would be focused on the many needs of his kingdom. And on top of the aftermath of Ceorl's attempted coup there were the frantic preparations for his sister's wedding. Eowyn and Faramir had been quick to point out that there was little sense in Rohan's guests returning home only to turn around and journey back to Rohan for their union.

It was the wedding, or rather the wedding gown, that was keeping her busy now. However, as daylight began to fade, Lothiriel finally admitted that her longing for Eomer's company was not going to be salved by logic any longer. If nothing else she wished to see for herself that he was recovering from the injury he had sustained fighting Ceorl. Having satisfied herself that progress on Eowyn's trousseau was going at a satisfactory pace, she put the final few stitches into the piece of intricate embroidery she was working on and went in search of him. A few discrete questions soon revealed his location, but on learning where he was and why, it was with some trepidation that she went to meet him.

Her path led her a short distance out of Edoras, and the sight that met her eyes tugged at her heart. Eomer was sitting alone atop a small grassy mound, staring out across the plains. He had his back to the two guards that watched over him from a discrete distance, and also to her approach. The guards bowed politely as she drew near, but neither spoke, apparently not wishing to disturb the respectful silence that such a place seemed to demand. Taking care to tread softly, she began to creep up behind him, hoping to surprise him.

"Lothiriel." He spoke her name without turning to look at her.

Disappointed at being discovered, she pouted at his back. "How did you know it was me?"

He twisted round, a gentle smile on his face. "A man can always sense the presence of the woman he loves."

She laughed softly even though she knew the sentiment to be nonsense. Taking the hand he held out in invitation, she settled on the ground next to him. "Such sweet words," she said. "Now tell me the truth."

It was his turn to laugh. Drawing her close he buried his face into her hair, and drew in a deep breath. "The breeze carried the sweet scent of lavender to me." He grew serious again. "I've missed you. My advisors have barely given me five minutes peace since my return. I was beginning to despair of us having any time together before the wedding tomorrow."

He claimed to miss her, yet he spent his time sitting alone beyond the walls of the city? All was clearly not well with him. Her fingers moved gently over his upper right arm, feeling the presence of a bandage beneath his sleeve. "Is it healing?"

"'Tis little more than a scratch, and look…" He pulled up his left sleeve, revealing his forearm. "I am free of the splint at last."

Gently, she reached out and brushed her fingers against the bruising on his arm, evidence of how hard he had been struck by Ceorl's sword, of how close he had come to being severely injured, perhaps even killed. Embarrassed he tugged his sleeve down again, wrapped his arm around her shoulders, and gazed out across the plains again.

Her own attention was drawn to the two neat lines of burial mounds in the foreground. One for the first line of kings, and another for the second. Of the latter she knew that the fresh tombs at the end belonged to Theoden and Theodred. Eventually a new line of mounds would be created, but she hoped that would be many years from now, for the first of the third line of Rohan kings was currently sitting by her side. Now, though, her gaze drifted to another fresh mound that was set some distance to the side of the royal tombs. This, she knew, was the reason Eomer had come out here. What she did not understand was why he lingered.

"It was a nice gesture," she said, shivering slightly in the chill breeze. He turned to her, puzzled. She nodded towards the new mound that had been created for the unknown man who had briefly been mourned in Eomer's place. "I understand it is the rarest of honours to be buried so close to the kings of Rohan."

Eomer's expression turned dark. "It scarcely makes up for a life that was stolen from him. Killed because he was unfortunate enough to be of my height and build and colouring."

She felt the tension in him. Felt his anger. His frustration. And suddenly she understood what had kept him amongst his forefathers. "Eomer, it was not your fault."

"No?"

"No," she said firmly. "And you do no one any favours sitting out here brooding over that which cannot be undone." She felt him stiffen at the sharpness of her words, but she was unrepentant. Eowyn had warned her that he had a tendency to lapse into melancholy. Well, maybe in the past that was so, but no more. Not while she was around to watch over him.

"So many deaths, Lothiriel. When the war ended, I had hoped that Rohan would be spared more trouble. Instead of which…"

She cut him off impatiently. "We honour the dead in the way we live our lives, Eomer. You know that as well as I. And as king you have more opportunity than most to see to it that those who have fought and died for Rohan are honoured by making their country prosperous and ensuring that their widows and children do not go hungry or cold." She met his gaze with a vehement one of her own. "You will be a good king, Eomer. I am sure of it. Aragorn is sure of it. Elfhelm, Eothain, all would agree with such a sentiment. And so do your people. Do not mistake the evil greed of Ceorl and those he blinded with spells and promises of coin as a voice against your rule." She brushed a strand of hair from his face and repeated herself with as much authority as she could muster. "You will be a good king."

He sighed heavily. "The crown was never something I desired nor sought, but since fate seems determined that it should rest upon my head, I can but try to be such." Once again his gaze drifted across the plain, but then he turned back to her. "Lothiriel, this is perhaps not the place I would've chosen to raise such a subject, but there is one thing that I need above all else if I am to stand any chance of succeeding at such an endeavour."

"And pray what might that be?"

He glanced away, drew himself up as though he was preparing to face the Black Gates of Mordor afresh and then once again met her gaze. "It is you by my side. As my wife and my queen." He studied her face, his expression uncertain. "What say you, Lothiriel of Dol Amroth? Will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?"

Heat rushed to her cheeks. How could he possibly doubt her answer? Had she not already offered herself to him? Did he truly not know how much she loved him? "Yes," she managed to say, barely able to squeeze the word from lungs that were suddenly breathless.

"Yes?"

She nodded. "I would be honoured to be your wife." A broad smile cut across his face, and then his lips were on hers and she found herself pressed against the soft ground, the weight of his body on hers as arousing as his kiss was passionate. It was quite some time before either of them were able to speak again, and she suspected that he was cursing the presence of the guards as much as she was. When finally she found her voice, she was glad to see that the dark weight of responsibility had lifted from him. That it would soon return, she did not doubt. Many difficult days still lay ahead for Rohan. Right now, though, she was determined to make the most of his lighter mood.

"So," she said, pulling strands of moss from her hair. "Is this what you consider to be wooing me properly?"

He kissed the end of her nose and then sighed wearily. "I have had a very long conversation with your father on that subject."

"And?" Her heart sank at the prospect of her father insisting that they waited an acceptable time before marrying. An acceptable time in Dol Amroth would be at least a year, possibly two.

"I told him that the Rohan way of taking a wife involved nothing more complicated than publicly agreeing to share a bed and raise any children that come from such a sharing. He in turn told me of the many rituals of courtship, most of which seem designed, as far as I can tell, to drive the groom mad with frustration."

"Not just the groom," Lothiriel muttered.

Eomer leaned forward and brushed his lips against hers. "However, I believe your father and I have come to a mutually acceptable agreement."

"That being?" Hope surged afresh.

"A brief…" He hesitated, clearly seeking the right word. "Engagement. No more than three turns of the moon. And then a three-day wedding ceremony with as many rituals as you wish to inflict upon me."

"My father agreed to that?" She was astonished.

Eomer smirked, and then added with an innocent air. "He seemed to think that I was getting the worst part of our bargain."

"What?" Outrage flared, but was almost immediately followed by laughter. She lowered her eyes. "I suppose I have not always been the most… docile of daughters."

"He loves you very much," Eomer said, somewhat contritely. "I believe his comment was merely a way to save face while agreeing to a marriage that some from Dol Amroth might consider arranged with unseemly haste."

Lothiriel smiled. "My father is a wise man."

"Particularly when it comes to understanding the impatience of the King of Rohan?"

"Not just the king," she replied, leaning in for another kiss. "But also the future queen."

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The Golden Hall was decorated with wild flowers and bathed in the golden glow of the midday sun. Standing beside Faramir, Lothiriel's attention was not on the interior décor, however.

"Do you not know it is uncouth to stare open-mouthed, cousin?" Faramir asked, amusement lighting up his face.

Feeling slightly foolish, Lothiriel pressed her lips together. However, she did not take her eyes from the object of her admiration. Bathed, groomed and dressed in clothes of emerald green embroidered with golden thread, Eomer, King of Rohan, was without doubt the most handsome man she had ever encountered. Her lips curved into a smile as she watched him walk the length of the Golden Hall, moving past both herself and Faramir to take his place in front of the throne. What was more, he was hers - heart, soul, and once her father's engagement period came to an end, body too. That thought sent a shiver of excitement through her, and she could not help but feel a pang of envy that this was Eowyn's wedding rather than her own.

A fanfare of trumpets announced the arrival of the king's sister, and Lothiriel was presented with the perfect opportunity to exact her revenge upon Faramir. "My, my, cousin, do you not know it is ill-mannered to stare open-mouthed," she said with a soft laugh.

"Is she not the most beautiful woman?" Faramir replied, as Eowyn slowly approached.

"Beautiful indeed," Lothiriel replied honestly. "And I have never seen her look so happy." With that she fell silent, for Eowyn was now standing before her brother and Faramir was beckoned forward to take his place at her side.

The ceremony was a simple one. Promises made to one another. An emerald ribbon tied around their wrists as physical evidence of the union of two hearts. And then some bizarre ritual in which Eomer swatted Faramir around the face with a horse's tail and, according to Elfhelm's whispered translation to Lothiriel, threatened to castrate him if he ever dishonoured Eowyn in any way.

She stared at Elfhelm in amazement, but the man seemed perfectly serious. With a sigh, she filed away the information as something to quiz Eomer about later. It was all very different to the three days of formality and ritual that would bind her to Eomer. She glanced over at her father and wondered what it would take to obtain his consent for a Rohan wedding. Then she remembered he had already agreed to an engagement that was scandalously short by Gondorian standards and decided it best not to re-open negotiations.

Moments later the ceremony was over. Faramir gave his new wife a chaste kiss on the cheek. In response Eowyn looked somewhat bemused. She leaned forward and whispered something into his ear. Colour rose up Faramir's cheeks, but then he grinned and pulled Eowyn close for a passionate kiss that had all the Rohirrim whooping with delight. As the kiss continued Eomer raised his eyebrows, and then with a laugh he left them to it.

"Let the feast begin," he shouted. A sentiment that was greeted with cheering by both Rohirrim and Gondorians alike.

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Erika circled the edge of the festivities, feeling somewhat out of place. She had been honoured by Eomer's insistence that she should attend the wedding, but the truth was that she was a stranger to nearly all except the king, Lothiriel and Elfhelm. Both Eomer and Lothiriel were naturally busy attending to the many noblemen and women. She ran her hands down the front of her borrowed dress, one of Lothiriel's, smoothing away an invisible crease. Perhaps she could slip away. For sure no one would notice.

A voice sounded to her left. Turning she found herself being addressed by young man with dark hair and grey eyes. "Garamir of Gondor," he said, introducing himself with a polite bow. "Am I right in thinking that we are suffering from the same calamity?"

She frowned, puzzled by his words. "And what calamity would that be, sir."

"That of being without a partner to sit next to at the meal."

Erika glanced swiftly around the room and realised that most of the guests had indeed begun to take seats at the banqueting table. She had hoped Elfhelm might seek her out, but he was no where to be seen. "I have to confess that I know very few people here," she said.

Garamir offered her his arm. "Then please, honour me with your company."

Once again she hesitated, but it was impossible to spot Elfhelm amongst so many Rohirrim. With a grateful smile she linked her arm through Garamir's and allowed him to lead her to a table.

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Free at last of his duties, Elfhelm was one of the last to take a seat at the wedding feast. Eothain and several other members of the eored called for him to join them at a table that had already grown raucous. He crossed to them, accepting a mug of ale from Eothain, but not taking the seat that was pulled for him. "I was hoping to sit with Erika," he said, glancing around the room. "Have you seen her?" His heart sank as he saw Eothain's embarrassed frown. "What is it, man?"

In reply, Eothain jerked his head towards a table further down the hall. Elfhelm craned forward and felt his world spin away from him. Erika was sitting beside a young man of her own age. It was clear that he was flirting with her. And it was also quite apparent that Erika was enjoying his attention.

"I'm sorry," Eothain said.

"Sorry for what?" Elfhelm replied gruffly. "There's nought between us but friendship. I'm glad for her."

"Elfhelm…"

"A toast," he said, grabbing his mug. "To the happy couple." He frowned as Eothain simply shook his head in disbelief. Damn it. He owed no one an explanation, but apparently offering one would be the only way to put an end to the subject. He knew Eothain far to well to expect the man to simply let it go. He set his tankard down untouched. "Erika is young, Eothain. She has no need of an old man such as me."

In response, Eothain held up his right hand, his thumb tucked into the palm. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Four," Elfhelm replied. "What of it?"

"Just checking that your eyesight is still keen."

"What?"

"I feared perhaps your vision has become clouded since you clearly have not seen how she looks at you."

"Eothain…"

"Enough of this stupidity, Elfhelm. The girl is in love with you. And you with her. Go to her, man."

"Have I not just explained?" Elfhelm felt his irritation notch.

"No. You have given me an excuse, 'tis all. So you are perhaps ten summers older than her…"

"Fifteen. At least."

"Ten. Fifteen. Twenty. What does it matter? The heart has no age, my friend. I never thought I would say this of you, Elfhelm, but I believe it is fear that keeps you silent."

"Your words are unwise," Elfhelm snarled as the truth bit into him. Fear. Oh yes, he was afraid. But not in the way Eothain perhaps thought. It was not fear of speaking to her that kept him silent. Was not even fear of being rejected. In fact it was quite the opposite. He was frightened that, having twice saved her life, she would agree to marry him through a sense of obligation. And that he would not risk. Better by far to love her and let her go free, than to give into his passion and imprison her in marriage that she did not truly desire. Surely could not ever desire given that he was old enough to be her father.

"No, it is you that are unwise," Eothain countered.

"Enough." Elfhelm pushed himself away from the table.

"Where are you going?" Eothain demanded.

"The king tasked me with finding Galwyn." His gaze flicked across the room to Erika. "I may as well leave now. Much as I wish the Lady Eowyn all happiness, this celebration has turned sour."

"Elfhelm!"

He was already striding away. Yes, this was the right thing to do. He would leave now. Serve his king as he always had. And on his return, he would request a position away from Edoras. He knew that Erika had already accepted a position as assistant to the Chief Healer. She, therefore, would remain here. No problem. He could serve Eomer just as well in the Eastern Mark as at Edoras.

Like the seasoned warrior he was, he closed down his emotions. It did not take him long to gather what he needed for the journey north. Resolutely he headed towards the stables.


	31. A Rohan wedding breakfast

_A/N – Thank you all once again for the reviews. Just one quick reply:_

_Lackwit: No, I had no idea Erika and Elfhelm were going to take over half the story. Erika was supposed to just be in a couple of scenes in the early part of the story. Then the romance bunny started whispering and here we are with…_

…_Oh yes, stubborn old Elfhlem g_

**Chapter 31 – A wedding day breakfast**

Erika turned as a hand dropped lightly onto her shoulder. To her surprise it was Eothain. He leaned forward and then whispered into her ear, his words causing her to glance sharply towards the door.

"Thank you," she said, when he was done. "I am extremely indebted to you."

Eothain turned his gaze to the high table where Eomer was feasting with the enthusiasm of a man whose diet had been plain for many a long day. "From what I have heard, Rohan is deeply indebted to you. If my words have helped to pay back just a little of what is owed, then I am satisfied." He tilted his cup in salute and then headed across the hall to rejoin his eored.

Erika swiftly got to her feet. "Please excuse me, Garamir. There is something important to which I must attend."

Disappointment clouded the young man's face. "Will you return before the feast is over?"

"I don't know." She was already moving towards the door. He caught at her hand, halting her departure.

"I will be waiting with eager hope," he said, brushing his lips against the back of her hand.

"I have to go," she said, pulling free. "I'm sorry."

She hurried from the hall as quickly as decorum would allow. Once outside she gathered up her skirt and ran down the stairs. Moments later, gasping for breath, she burst into the stable.

"Elfhelm?" There was no reply. "Elfhelm, I know you're here." She moved down the row of stalls. The third one contained her quarry. He was saddling his horse, his face shadowed by an overhead beam. "Oh, Elfhelm," she breathed his name in a rush of relief. He was still here. Thank the gods.

He glanced at her, frowned, and then turned his attention back to his horse. "What are you doing here?" The words were tossed casually over his shoulder as though she was of no more importance than one of the stable boys.

Hurt stabbed at her, but she brushed it aside. His manner was not going to stop her from speaking. Not tonight. She tilted her chin. "I would ask the same of you."

Another look. This one that clearly told her to mind her own business. But then, he gave a barely imperceptible shrug, yet another message as to her insignificance. "I'm acting on orders from the king."

"And I'm acting on an order from Eothain." Why? Why was he doing this to her? She gripped the top of the rough wooden stall door, welcoming the catch of a splinter against her palm.

His head jerked up, eyes calculating. Then he stooped, picked up a bed roll from the ground and began to strap it onto the saddle. "Eothain had no right to speak of this."

A dozen responses to that particular piece of foolishness swept through her mind. She dismissed them all. What she needed to do now was focus on what was important. Hurt stabbed at her again, and this time she let it rise to the surface. "You were just going to leave? Without so much as a farewell?"

He hesitated. Huffed out a breath. "I thought it for the best."

She growled her frustration. "Did you now?"

"Yes."

Damn him. How many times was he going to do that to her? Anger fired her courage. Yanking the stall door open, she marched into the small enclosure, grabbed Elfhelm's arm and pulled him round to face her. "It seems to me it is time that I told you what I think is for the best."

"Erika…"

"Not only will I tell you what I think, I will speak plainly in order that there may be no confusion between us."

He glared at her, but remained silent. The heat of her anger vanished as quickly as it had flared. Fear curled in the pit of her stomach, and her nerve all but failed her. She glanced down, realised her fingers were still folded over his arm. The arm of a warrior. Strong in battle. She took a deep breath and dug deep into her own reserves of strength. Her fingers uncurled, releasing him, but her eyes did not move from his face. If she had to fight for both of them, then she would. And if her heart was pierced as a result… well, better that than live the knowledge that she was too cowardly to speak.

She folded her arms over her chest and hugged herself tight as she spoke. "I desire a family of my own, Elfhelm. And for that I have need of a husband that I can respect and trust and… love." She saw his eyes widen in shocked surprise. Dear gods, let it not be from revulsion at what she was about to suggest. "Correct me if I am wrong, but I believe you are weary of returning to an empty hearth and a cold bed. And so…"

"Are you offering yourself to me, girl?" he blurted out.

Heat flushed her cheeks. "You have need of a wife. I have need of a husband."

"By the gods, woman, when you said you intended to speak plain, it was clearly no joke."

He turned from her and began to adjust a stirrup. She was trembling now, but not from cold, although there was no denying the chill in the air. "What do you say to my proposal?"

His shoulders stiffened, and he did not look at her. "I say you are a fool. Why waste your time with an old man such as me when you can snap your fingers and have the likes of Garamir falling at your feet?"

What? For a moment, her mind reeled, but then, exasperated, she stepped around him, putting herself between him and his horse. "Because I don't care about the likes of Garamir. It is you that I love."

"I cannot ask you to waste your youth on me," he muttered gruffly.

"You do not have to ask for that which is freely given. And besides, it will not be wasted."

Her heart twisted as she studied his face, looking for some sign that she had reached him. Hope died. There was nothing in his expression that said anything other than that she'd fought and lost. It was over. "Very well," she said. "I have your answer. I will not trouble you again."

She moved past him, intent on leaving the stall and then the stable as quickly as possible. Before the tears began.

"Erika." It sounded as though her name was torn from the very depths of him.

She hesitated, felt a hand on her arm, and then gasped as she was spun round. Her eyes met his and she felt the tears well again as she saw his uncertainty, his need, his love. His lips twisted into something that might have been a smile or alternatively might have been pain. Then he yanked her to him.

His voice was a low, throaty growl. "May the gods help me, for I am sure to rue the day that I take such an outspoken, bossy young woman into my home."

She scarcely had chance to register the words before he lowered his lips to hers and delivered a kiss that sent a rush of heat through her. Emotions tumbled over one and another, but somehow her brain managed to form one coherent thought. When Elfhelm made up his mind about something he went for it wholeheartedly. And thank the gods for that. She responded to his touch by tangling her fingers into his hair and opening herself to the insistent pressure of his tongue against her lips. All ability to think deserted her.

When finally they broke apart, he was smiling down at her as though he had just won some great prize. Erika was only too aware of the broad grin on her own face.

"I take it that's a yes," she said, breathing in the sweet aroma of his leather armour.

He reached out and brushed a stray lock of hair from her cheek. "Are you really sure you want a grizzled old man well past his prime as a husband?"

"I see no such man here," she replied. "Only a warrior who I have come to admire and respect and with whom I would gladly spend my days."

He dipped his forehead to hers. "Then so be it."

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Three months. To Eomer, it had seemed like an eternity. Now at last, though, his wedding day had finally dawned. He stretched leisurely, conscious that this would be the last morning he would wake and have the bed to himself. That thought bought a smile to his lips and a pleasing tightness to his groin. Tonight Lothiriel would be his, the union of their hearts finally complemented by the joining of their bodies.

He stared up at the ceiling, running over his plans once again. There were would be firelight and wine. And then there would be slow, tender kisses that would, if all went well, lead naturally to slow, tender lovemaking. He was determined that his own needs would take second place to Lothiriel's. Tonight was to be special for both of them and even if it all but killed him, he would take things at her pace and do everything in his power to make sure the experience was a pleasure for her. Elfhelm had told him there was no better wedding present that a man could give a woman. It was advice he had scarcely needed, but he appreciated the good intentions behind the words. He also appreciated that Elfhelm had been somewhat embarrassed at raising the subject. Eowyn, on the other hand, had cornered him the previous day and lectured him on the differences between men and women as though he was some untrained colt who knew nothing about patience. It was a good job he loved his sister and knew that she simply wanted him to start his marriage as well as possible.

A knock at the door forced him to drag his mind away from the pleasant anticipation of the end of the day. "Come," he barked, knowing it would be the first of a great many visitors throughout the day. There was much that he needed to attend to. Edoras was crammed with guests, many of whom wished to combine business with celebration. A bridegroom he might be, but he was still a king, and as such he could not lay a bed – even on his wedding day.

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Elfhelm also awoke to an empty bed. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, he sat up and then cursed softly as he heard the sound of retching coming from the other room. He pushed the bedclothes aside, and padded softly through the doorway. A fire was burning low in the hearth, and in the orange glow he saw Erika hunched over a bucket. She glanced towards him as she straightened up, wiping her mouth with a cloth.

"Go back to bed," she said. "I am fine."

He shook his head, and crossed the room to her, gathering her into his arms. "I am so sorry," he murmured planting a kiss on the top of her head.

"For what?" she asked. "Filling my belly with child? I rejoice every morning that the gods have blessed me with a virile husband and that soon we will be a family. What does a little sickness matter?"

"I hate to see you so wretched."

She wrapped her arms around him. "It will pass. But if you truly feel the need to show contrition, I would not object if you were to make me some ginger tea."

He kissed her hair again. "I believe I can manage such a task. Go back to bed. I'll bring it in to you." He released her and moved to the fire, picking up the heavy iron kettle as he did so.

She shook her head. "I promised Eowyn I would help in the kitchen today."

"Erika." He turned back to her. Surely she wasn't serious.

"I'll be fine," she said, cutting off his protest. "I can help with the bread-making. Kneading dough is relaxing, and the smell of yeast actually settles my stomach. Perhaps our son will be a baker when he grows."

Elfhelm snorted. "No son of mine is going to spend his days with his hands in flour. Our daughter, however…"

"Our daughter will be great healer," Erika said.

"Just like her mother," Elfhelm finished. The conversation about the future of their unborn child had become a familiar joke between them. Both of them knew, that whatever gender the child turned out to be, they desired nothing more than a life of happiness and peace for him or her. "You are not needed elsewhere today?"

"There has been nothing but a few minor cuts and bruises to attend to for the past few days. Since Eomer reclaimed the throne, Edoras has had scant need for one healer, never mind two."

"Long may that continue," Elfhelm said. He grated a few curls of ginger root into a cup, poured warm water over it from the kettle, and then stirred in a generous dollop of honey. He handed it to Erika who was now sitting at the table. "Promise me you'll be careful today. If you feel faint or sick…"

She reached for his hand, squeezing his fingers with affection. "I will be fine, Elfhelm. Now go, enjoy the day. I am sure the bridegroom will be in need of your company by now. From what I've heard he is as impatient as any stallion to have this day done with and his mare abed."

"Erika, 'tis the king you speak of," Elfhelm protested.

"'Tis but a man beneath the crown, my husband. A man who gave his heart many a month ago, but has yet to give his body. I suspect he will need wise council today if he is to be prevented from being so distracted he gives most of Rohan away to any who might ask him for it."

Elfhelm laughed. "I cannot deny there is truth in that. Very well, my love, I will go and support Eomer in his hour of need."

"And I will ensure that the Princess of Dol Amroth has the sweetest of bread on her plate to give her the stamina to ride her stallion all night long."

Elfhelm shook his head in shocked bemusement. "You are outrageous."

"Of course. Isn't that why you love me?"

After he'd gone, she took her time finishing her tea. The warming ginger was beginning to do its work as she stepped into the weak sunlight of another Rohan day. Not just any day, she thought happily - the king's wedding day. She glanced up at the sky, and reassured herself that the watery blue would soon turn to a cloudless azure. Everything had to be perfect today. Eomer and Lothiriel deserved nothing less.

The kitchen was already seething with activity. Erika held her breath as she walked past the barrels of fish that were marinating in sweetly spiced vinegar – a gift from Price Imrihil. Her stomach had settled considerably, but she wasn't ready to risk that particular aroma even if it was one of Dol Amroth's finest delicacies. More pleasing was the rich scent of honeyed apples which were being prepared for pies. Three young women were already rolling out vast sheets of butter-rich pastry. Stepping briefly outside again, she crossed the narrow passageway to the next building – the bake house. Ah, now this was definitely a smell her unborn child approved of. Yeast. Flour. And the delicious scent of wood-fired ovens.

For the next couple of hours she drifted in a world of fragrant warmth, her hands engaged in the therapeutic rhythm of kneading dough and shaping loaves. Her mind floated free, daydreaming of a future in which her children would play happily besides those of Royal family and perhaps, did she dare hope, one day serve the future king and queen of Rohan as she and Elfhelm did now.

Lunchtime was fast approaching when Erika finally took a break. Slipping back into the main kitchen she helped herself to a mug of sweetened tea and a handful of thin oat biscuits. Plain, simple nourishment that would not upset her stomach. The bright sunshine was calling her and she moved towards the door, side-stepping past the servants who were preparing trays of food. Most of Rohan's guests would be eating in their rooms, the Golden Hall being out of bounds until the wedding ceremony and the evening's feast. Her gaze drifted over the heat-warmed faces, mostly familiar, but one or two that she did not recognise. No doubt additional help drafted in from local villages.

She stepped forward, intent on the door, but suddenly froze. Four women had bustled into the kitchen, joining the others in the scrum to fill trays. That face, it was familiar, but there was something about the overly bright blonde hair that did not ring true. It looked… dyed! Recognition washed over her with icy dread. Galwyn! No, surely it couldn't be. And yet, it wasn't impossible. Elfhelm had returned from the north without finding her two months earlier. The failure had galled him greatly.

A young lad pushed past her, his arms filled with the skinned carcass of a deer. The stench of blood and raw meat assailed her. Nausea roiled afresh and she was forced to turn away, sucking in a breath through her teeth. Desperately she forced the sickness away and turned back, her gaze searching the group of women. Where was she? Where had Galwyn gone?

There was no sign of her. Swiftly Erika set down her breakfast and hurried over to the group. "Where did she go?" she demanded. They stared blankly at her. "There was a woman. Pale eyes and hair that was not naturally blonde." They exchanged confused looks and then shrugged. "You must have seen her," she said desperately.

One of the younger girls shook her head. "There are so many strangers here today. One woman? Was there anything special about her that we should've noticed?"

"No, I suppose not." Erika swore silently, and pushed past the group. She had to find Elfhelm. Had to warn the king.


	32. Cold revenge

_A/N: Sorry, sorry – I know it is mean to play havoc with Eomer and Lothiriel's wedding day, but what can I say. Some times us writers just have to let the evil muse have its way. So, ready for one last cliff-hanger? _

**Chapter 32 – Cold revenge**

She had been recognised. Of that Galwyn had no doubt. A thousand curses on that wretched healer. Fingers gripping hard at the tray of sweetmeats and wine she was carrying, she ducked into an alcove and took a moment to calm herself. To have come this far unobserved, right into the very heart of the Golden Hall itself, had been no easy task. Every moment she remained here was torture. The exuberant mood of the guests was a painful counterpoint to her grief. Her son was dead, killed by the man they now praised and whose wedding they were here to celebrate. That Eomer, Son of Eomund should be alive was injustice enough. That he should be happy was more than she could bear.

She breathed in, and then slowly exhaled, forcing her muscles to relax as she did so. She would not let nerves betray her now. Nor would that runt of a girl bring about her ruin. The fates were on her side. The throne of Rohan was destined to be a seat of misery for the new king. She would personally see to that.

The trembling of her limbs was calmed now, and she once again set off through the narrow hallways. As she had suspected, no one paid any attention to a middle-aged servant going about her business, and it took scarcely any time for her to reach the door to the princess' chamber. Her polite knock was answered by a young girl, face flushed with excitement. Galwyn knew from observing the royal party earlier that this was the youngest of the three maids that attended Lothiriel. Not only was she young, she wasn't exactly the sharpest of girls. Yes, the fates were definitely with her.

"I have refreshments for the princess," Galwyn said. She stepped forward as she spoke, giving the girl little option but to admit her to the room. Almost immediately, the maid turned away, her attention drawn back to pair of women in the centre of the chamber who were fussing over the seated figure of the bride to be.

Keeping her face averted, Galwyn crossed the room and set the tray down on a small side table. A quick glance told her no one was paying her any attention. Perfect. She drew a small silk handkerchief from her pocket. The corners had been tied together so that it formed a pouch. Carefully she untied the thread that held it, and then moved towards the young women, all of whom were now busily working Lothiriel's hair into an intricate confection of ringlets and curls. So thoughtful of them to gather so closely together.

She paused behind then, murmured an incantation and then, holding tightly onto one corner, snapped the handkerchief into the air above their heads. The action released a cloud of silvery-grey powder. Galwyn hurriedly stepped back, holding her breath. Four pairs of eyes swivelled towards her. Lothiriel leapt to her feet, a cry of alarm forming on her lips but not sounding. Two of her maids had already collapsed at her feet. She half-turned as the third one crumpled to her right. An intricately carved comb dropping from the maid's fingers and skittered across the floor to Galwyn's feet. Then finally, Lothiriel dropped to the floor.

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"I know it is churlish of me to ask, but how many more people do I have to make polite conversation with?" Eomer asked as Elfhelm closed the door on yet another set of well-wishing visitors.

"Only two, your Majesty, and they asked if they may see you together. Shall I show them in?"

"Their names?"

Elfhelm shot an affectionate look in Eomer's direction. "I do not think they need an introduction." He opened the door and beckoned to the two as yet unseen people.

Eomer's heart lifted as they stepped into view. "Legolas! Gimli! Welcome." Two strides took him across the room, and he grasped Legolas' forearm in greeting. "I was told you were travelling far off in the east."

Legolas gave an elegant smile that somehow also managed to be mischievous. "Surely you did not think we would miss your wedding?"

"Aye, lad," Gimli said, taking his turn at greeting Eomer. "I need to see this queen of yours with my own eyes." He hesitated, and then asked. "Is it true you consider her fairer than the Lady Galadriel?"

Ah, so Gimli wanted another round of that game, did he? Very tempting. However, the last time the subject of the Elven Queen had arisen, blows had almost been exchanged, and Eomer doubted Lothiriel would understand were her bridegroom to greet her in the Golden Hall with a bruised face and black eyes. He inclined his head and smiled graciously. "I have heard it said that beauty is in the eye of the beholder."

Gimli snorted. "What is the world coming too that a Rider of Rohan will not speak for his lady even on his wedding day?"

Eomer laughed. "Perhaps this particular Rider of Rohan has learnt not to be drawn into arguments by the words of a sly old fox?"

At that Gimli also laughed. He elbowed Legolas in the ribs in a display of delight. "Seems our hot-headed marshal has learnt to tame his tongue since a crown has been put on his head."

Relieved to have escaped the good-natured goading, Eomer gestured towards a table that was laid with a generous amount of food. "Have you eaten? It seems that Elfhelm and I have been supplied with a lunch that is far more than is necessary for two."

Legolas inclined his head in polite refusal. "We broke our fast but a short-time ago."

Gimli, however, was already half-way to the table. "Elves," he muttered to Eomer. "They like to walk on snow you know. I, however, have room for a snack at least." His gaze fell on a bronze flagon. "Would that be some of that fine ale you people brew?"

"Indeed it would," Eomer said. He opened a small closet and took out extra tankards. "Elfhelm, come and eat. Quickly, now, before this dwarf clears the table!" As Gimli began to pile a plate, Eomer poured the ale. He was just about to drink from his own tankard when the door to his chamber burst open.

Eothain charged into the room, his sword in his hand. "Eomer, are you alright?" Horror twisted his features as he focused on the tankard Eomer was about to raise to his lips. "No!" He leapt across the room, grabbed it from Eomer's hand, and hurled the contents out of the open window. Whirling he prodded at a loaf of bread as though it might suddenly leap from the tray and pummel Eomer to death. "Have you eaten any of this?"

"Eothain, have you completely lost your senses?" Eomer asked, too stunned to be anything more than bemused by the sudden interruption.

"Have you touched the food?" Eothain demanded.

"No," Eomer replied, stepping forward to relieve Gimli of his laden plate. He set it on the table with a frown. "Eothain?"

"And the ale? Had you already supped the ale?"

Eomer's gaze moved wistfully to the window. "No, although I am beginning to feel in dire need of a drink. Whatever is the matter, man?"

Relief made Eothain's shoulders sag. "Galwyn has been seen. Erika saw her in the kitchens. She was carrying a tray of food."

"What?" The shock was like a physical blow to Eomer.

Legolas stepped forward, arms crossed over his chest. "Galwyn is the woman who imprisoned you, is she not?"

Eomer nodded. Damn the woman. Why did she have to choose now to reappear?

Elfhelm's hand was on the hilt of his sword as he interrupted the conversation. "Is Erika all right?"

Eothain nodded briefly. "Aye, she is well, a little bit breathless from running to raise the alarm perhaps." He sheathed his sword with a violent thrust, and turned his attention back to Eomer. "Are you sure…"

"I am perfectly well," Eomer said. "I think I would've noticed if it had been Galwyn who brought me my lunch." He shuddered, the memory of a cold, damp prison cell chilling his bones like an icy draught.

"Where is Erika?" Elfhelm demanded. "Did you leave her alone? If Galwyn…"

"Peace, friend," Eothain interrupted. "Your lady is perfectly safe. I left two of the eored to watch over her."

"Thank you," Elfhelm huffed out a breath.

Eomer was pacing now. "She was certain it was Galwyn?" he asked Eothain.

"Aye, your Majesty, though she said the witch has bleached her hair in order to pass unnoticed amongst us." Eothain straightened his shoulders. "With your permission, I will double the guard at your door and…"

"No." Eomer frowned as he digested the news. Galwyn was here, and without doubt meant him ill.

"No?" Eothain and Elfhelm said in unison, exchanging concerned looks.

Gimli glanced at Eothain. "Don't you go fretting about extra guards, laddie. The elf and I will see to it this witch doesn't get anywhere him."

Eomer stared at the food, and then slowly turned and looked at the door. If Galwyn hadn't attempted to come to him then… His stomach suddenly twisted as realisation struck. He rushed towards the door only to be pulled to a halt by a strong hand curled around his wrist.

Legolas met his angry glare with cool blue eyes. "Where are you going?"

Eomer wrenched his arm free as he fought to control his anger. "It isn't me that Galwyn is after. It's Lothiriel."

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Lothiriel regained consciousness quickly and painfully. Fear clawed at her. Was she blind? Why couldn't she see? She was lying on her side, legs tucked into her chest. Panic inched closer as she tried to move and found she couldn't. Her feet were pressed against something solid, and the skin of her knees scraped against a rough surface. Trapped. The knowledge was like a blow. She was folded into a small, dark place, and… She groaned inwardly as other sensations registered now. She both bound and gagged.

The sharp claws of panic latched onto her now. Suddenly she couldn't breath. Lights began to dance behind her eyes, as she desperately tried to inhale the warm, stale air of her prison. She was going to die. Suffocated. Buried.

A sudden jolt made her grunt with pain as momentum thrust her cramped body against one end of her prison. For a moment, she was too stunned to think as her muscles and limbs screamed a protest. Slowly, though, she pushed the hurt down to a bearable level. The jolt had to mean she was inside a moveable object. A box or a trunk of some kind. Yes, that made sense. That explained the cramped space, the darkness, and the poor quality of the air. Fighting the urge to kick out and scream, she forced herself to be still and concentrate on listening. There - she could make out a few muffled noises now. A scraping sound was coming from beneath her, but stopped almost immediately. There was something else - perhaps the murmuring of voices? It was too soft to make out.

Another jolt made her bite down on the gag, the rough cloth providing unexpected comfort as she began to contemplate the only thing that made sense of her current situation. She was being kidnapped. But by whom?

The sudden assault of memory would've caused her to cry out were she capable of doing so. Galwyn. She remembered only too clearly now. She'd been in the chamber that had once belonged to Eowyn. Her maids had been putting the finishing touches to her hair, and she was looking forward to putting on her wedding dress. And then - then she'd turned and looked into the face of Galwyn.

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Eomer burst into Lothiriel's chamber, too concerned to worry about knocking. "No!" He all but fell as he saw the bodies on the floor. Dead? No, she couldn't be dead. Legolas caught at his arm, steadying him. Elfhelm and Eothain both pushed past him. Elfhelm dropped to his knees beside the nearest body, and he brushed back the dark hair covering the woman's face. He glanced at Eothain, who was checking the other two women, both fair-haired, and then he looked up at Eomer. "She isn't here, Eomer."

Eomer swallowed hard, battling to keep the tumult of emotions in check. He could see now that there were only three bodies - Lothiriel's personal maid, and two Rohirrim women who had been thrilled to serve their future queen on her special day. "Are they…?"

"Just unconscious," Elfhelm replied, his fingers at the pulse point of the maid's neck.

Relief hit him like a wave. If they still lived, then there was hope yet. Eomer gazed frantically round the room, seeking clues, yet too overwhelmed to actually register details. Where was she? How could Galwyn had spirited her away against her will? Was it magic or…?

Gimli and Legolas had both entered the room now. The dwarf bent, scooping a woollen blanket from a pile of other bedclothes on the floor at the foot of the bed. "Is your new queen prone to untidiness?" he asked Eomer.

"What?" Eomer stared at him blankly. Lothiriel was missing and Gimli wanted to discuss her housekeeping skills? Was he completely mad?

Unperturbed by Eomer's reaction, Gimli shoved the bedclothes to one side and tapped his booted foot against the wooden floor. An oblong of darker coloured wood stood out against the sun-bleached paleness of the rest of the floor. "Unless I am very much mistaken, a chest stood here but a short time ago. A chest that held these blankets."

Legolas immediately stepped forward. "You are right, my friend. See here - faint scratches in the floorboards. It was dragged towards the door - and clearly it was heavy. More than woollen blankets were held within."

Eomer stalked forward, his fingers wrapped tightly around the hilt of his sword. "Are you telling me that Lothiriel was taken from here in a blanket box?"

Legolas nodded. "No alarm has been raised. How else would a kidnapper succeed in getting her out of the Golden Hall unseen?"

Distraught, Eomer sank onto the bed. "Then she could be anywhere. How can we possibly hope to find her?"

"Legolas will track her," Gimli said confidently.

Eomer looked towards the elf, fresh hope in his heart, only for it to be quenched immediately as Legolas shook his head.

"I am sorry," Legolas said. "With so many visitors moving around Edoras, any tracks will already be obliterated." He moved towards the window and sighed heavily as he gazed out of it. "Wait a minute." He spun to face Eomer again. "There is one small hope. What is the highest point of the city?"

"Easily accessible? The beacon tower," Eomer replied.

"Of course. Come!"

"Legolas," Eomer began, uncertain what he hoped to gain by climbing the tower. However, the elf was already out of the room and half way down the corridor, and he had to satisfy himself with merely running after him.

A few minutes later, gasping for breath, Eomer reached the top of the watchtower. Legolas was leaning casually against the outer railing, his calm demeanour suggesting he had merely strolled up the stairway.

"There," Legolas said, pointing across the plain.

Eomer squinted, and then shook his head. "I don't see anything."

"A cloud of dust. Travellers moving away from Edoras."

"You think it might be Galwyn?" Dear god, let it be Galwyn. And please, let Lothiriel be alive and unharmed.

"Who else would wish to depart the city on your wedding day?" Legolas turned. "There is a small rise with some kind of structure on it not more than a league further on. Do you know this place?"

Eomer felt nausea rise in his gut. "The Carrion Hill. It is a place of execution, rarely used in our history." He drew in a shaky breath. "I ordered Ceorl's body to be hung there as a warning to anyone else that might care to challenge my authority." He stared at Legolas unable to voice the horrifying suspicion he now had as to Galwyn's intent.

The elf met his gaze, a dark glint in his eyes. "A life for a life," he said, confirming Eomer's fear. He glanced out at the plain again. "We have little time.

Gimli huffed into the tower, his face red and sweaty from the climb. "Well, what have you discovered?"

Eomer pushed past him, taking the stairs two at a time. "We think we know where Galwyn is taking Lothiriel. Hurry!"

"Hurry?" Gimli panted. "You don't even know the meaning of the word, laddie."

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The lid of Lothiriel's prison suddenly opened, sunlight blinding her as she squinted up at the face of her captor.

"Still alive then?" Galwyn hissed, staring down at her with malevolence. She reached into the chest, wrapped strong fingers around Lothiriel's upper arms and hauled her upright.

Pain flared through cramped muscles, and nausea roiled in Lothiriel's stomach. No, she couldn't be sick. Not with a gag in her mouth. Desperately she forced herself to stay calm, to focus on the thought that her absence from the Golden Hall was sure to be noticed, and that Eomer was no doubt already racing to her rescue.

"Yes, he's coming," Galwyn said, apparently reading her mind. "Sadly he will be too late to save you from execution."

Execution? Lothiriel's limbs suddenly felt weak. Was that what Galwyn planned? To kill her rather than hold her for ransom? Now her eyes had adjusted to the light she quickly took in her surroundings. She was sitting in the blanket box from her bedroom. The box was on the back of a small horsedrawn cart, which was stationary on top of a small rise. To her right she could make out the walls of Edoras. To her left was open plain. In front of her was a sight that chilled her to the bone. A wooden framework stood starkly against the azure sky. She stared up at it, her gaze transfixed by the noose that hung from one of the beams.

"Ugly isn't it?" Galwyn said. "Your bridegroom thought it a fitting resting place for my son. Hung his body there for the crows to feed on."

Frustrated Lothiriel tried to speak despite the rough material that gagged her.

"Want to defend him, my pretty?" Galwyn considered a moment. "Well, why not. It isn't as though there is anyone to hear your screams for help."

Lothiriel spat out a mouthful of rag as Galwyn released the gag. She sucked air deep into her lungs, before speaking. "Your son was a traitor. Eomer only did what was necessary."

"Hanging his body on a gibbet? Was that necessary?"

"What did you expect? An honour guard to attend his burial?" Lothiriel hissed in pain as Galwyn leaned over and pulled her to her feet. The numbness of her limbs quickly turned to the discomfort of pins and needles, and nausea once again threatened.

"I expected him to be king," Galwyn said, her face mere inches from Lothiriel's. "Instead that cur from the House of Eorl cheated death time and again, and took back that which was not his to have in the first place."

"The throne belongs to Eomer," Lothiriel replied, winning her battle with her stomach once again. "None of your plots and schemes could alter that. Even your dark magic failed against him. Is that not proof enough that the gods are on his side?"

Galwyn suddenly reached out, tangling her fingers into Lothiriel's hair and pulling her even closer. "And what of you? Are the gods on your side, Princess of Dol Amroth?"

"Eomer will come and when he does…"

A peal of humourless laughter tore from Galwyn. "When he does, he will find you dead, hanging from the same place that he put my son. The third line of kings will be a short one for no woman will ever bear him a child. Forever will I haunt his steps and he will learn that to even cast an affectionate look on a female will be the equivalent of signing her death warrant. The gods may have granted him a throne and a country, but I will see to it that he rules in loneliness and misery and that he is forever remembered as Eomer the Cursed."

Horrified, Lothiriel pulled away. Words failed her, not because of the threat to her own life, but at the enormity of the hatred that Galwyn had for Eomer. She tugged futilely at her bonds. There had to be something she could do. Some way to stop this. Despair bit deep as Galwyn forced her from the cart. With her hands tied behind her back how could she possibly do anything to save herself, let alone Eomer?

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Eomer arrived at the stable to find Brego and Firefoot obediently following Aragorn towards the door. Neither horse wore saddle or bridle. Legolas hurried past, heading for Hasulfel's stall. Trailing behind, although eager to catch up, were Gimli, Eothain and Elfhelm.

Aragorn glanced at Eomer, his face serious. "You can ride bareback, can you not?"

He scrubbed his hand over his face as he tried to catch up with the notion that Aragorn was not only here, but clearly intended to ride out with him. "Of course, but…"

"Then let us not waste time with saddles and bridle. Lothiriel's life may depend on our speed."

"How did you know?" Eomer asked, as he grabbed a handful of Firefoot's mane and swung himself onto the horse's back.

Aragorn settled himself on Brego. "You Rohirrim have a number of strange customs. I do not think racing up the watchtower on your wedding day is one of them."

Ah, he should've known that action would not have gone unnoticed. "Galwyn has her," he said, knowing the name would explain all.

"I feared as much," Aragorn replied. He shot Eomer a sympathetic look. "Do not worry, my friend, we will get your bride back." He turned and shouted into the dim interior of the stable. "Legolas? Do you intend to dally all day?"

The sound of thundering hooves came in response. Legolas and Hasulfel burst through the doorway and galloped towards the gate, scattering Rohirrim children and livestock in their wake. Eomer and Aragorn immediately urged their own horses on.

"What about us," Elfhelm called, as he arrived at the stable, out of breath. Behind him was Eothain, and some distance further was Gimli.

Eomer threw his reply over his shoulder. "You know where we're heading. Follow as fast as you can."

Gimli snorted as he caught up with the two eored riders. "So, which one of you gentleman is going to share a saddle with me?"

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Although he was not unaccustomed to riding bareback, Eomer rarely did so at such breakneck speed. He knew the action was reckless, but he did not care. In fact, he was grateful that it required all his attention to ensure he stayed on Firefoot's back. It was far too painful to think of Lothiriel in Galwyn's hands. He cursed silently, berating his own stupidity. When Elfhelm had returned with the news that Galwyn had apparently fled towards the Haradrim, Eomer had decided not to spend any more time and manpower in attempting to capture her. There were too many other pressing needs that needed his attention. However, he should've known that Galwyn's hatred of him would draw her back to Rohan. Should've guessed too that she would not strike directly at him but rather at the one person he held most precious. By the gods, this time he would see to it that Galwyn would not cause trouble for his house again. This time he would see her dead.

They were almost at the hill now. The lighter coloured vegetation on its slopes made it easy to pick out the gibbet and two figures, one of which was…

"No!" A gut-wrenching cry tore from him as his brain made sense of what he was seeing. From this distance he could see that one of the two figures was standing beneath the gibbet. It had to be Lothiriel, and from her narrow silhouette he guessed that her hands tied behind her back. Standing by the upright beam was a second figure. Galwyn. Eomer cursed. He knew how the gibbet worked. Galwyn would be standing next to a metal ring, to which a rope would be secured - a rope which was no doubt looped over the arm of the gibbet and then around Lothiriel's neck. The witch was going to hang her.


	33. A desperate ride

A/N – And so we come at last to the end. I have split the final chapter into two so that any readers who prefer not to read R-rated fic can enjoy this conclusion. For those who don't mind a little R-rated sex, then read on to Chapter 34 which follows Eomer and Lothiriel into the matrimonial bed.

Finally, my thanks to all you wonderful people who have reviewed this story and encouraged me immensely along the way. I will forever be grateful for your kind and generous words.

**Chapter 33 – A desperate ride**

_No! The witch was going to hang Lothiriel!_

Even as the thought formed, Eomer saw Galwyn move. His gaze jerked back to Lothiriel, and he screamed his fury and distress. Where moments before she had been standing, now she was clearly suspended. No. No! There was no way he could reach her in time to save her. Not even at the bone-jarring gallop that Firefoot was doing. There was nothing he could do except watch the woman he loved kick and struggle against the noose that was choking the life from her. Already her effort was weakening. She was dying. Right before his eyes.

"Legolas," Aragorn shouted. "Your bow."

Uncomprehending, Eomer dragged his attention from the horrifying scene. He looked round wildly and saw Legolas position an arrow at the ready. The elf was still riding at a full gallop, his hips rolling with the motion, but his upper body was miraculously steady. He took aim, straight at Lothiriel. What was he thinking? To spare her pain by killing her quickly? "No!"

"Trust him!" Aragorn called.

Eomer choked off another cry as Legolas drew back the string on his bow, and then let the arrow fly. Twisting to face front again, Eomer's gaze followed its flight. And suddenly he understood. Of course! The arrow hissed over Lothiriel's head, catching at the rope as it passed, slicing through some of the twisted cords. A second arrow followed. More strands were cut. Yet still she hung from the gibbet, no longer struggling, head bowed. An elvish curse cut through the air and a third arrow took flight. This one completed the task. The rope broke.

And Lothiriel dropped lifelessly to the ground.

It was a sight that Eomer knew would haunt him forever more. Move, he silently begged Lothiriel, please move. Please don't be dead. His plea went unheeded. He was vaguely aware that Galwyn was now mounted and galloping into the distance, but right now he did not care. All he wanted was to reach Lothiriel. A lifetime seemed to pass as Firefoot covered the remaining distance. Not waiting for Firefoot to come to a halt, he vaulted from his back, almost fell as he struggled to find his feet on the rough grassland, and then he was running.

"Lothiriel!" He dropped to his knees and scooped her into his arms, tugging at the tight twist of rope around her neck. No, dear gods, no. Her lips were blue. Her eyes closed, her body still. At last the rope came free, and he leaned over her, pressing his mouth to hers, breathing his own breath into her body. "Lothiriel, please." Tears were running down his face, but he didn't care. "Lothiriel," he begged. "Don't leave me. Don't let her win." A soft footfall by his side made him look up. It was Aragorn. Despair overtook Eomer. "We were too late. I was too late."

"Perhaps not," Aragorn murmured. He also knelt besides Lothiriel, gently resting his fingers at the pulse point of her neck. "It is faint, but there is still an echo of life."

"You can save her?" Eomer asked desperately. "You can, right? You have healing hands. I saw what you did for Eowyn."

A deep sigh rippled through Aragorn and his frown deepened. "Your sister was touched by the evil of the Witch King. This is not an injury caused by dark magic."

No. Eomer shook his head. Refused to hear. "Try, Aragorn. You have to try!"

Another sigh escaped Aragorn, and then he gave a hesitant nod as he glanced at Eomer. "Perhaps love can prevail where the physical world would steal life. " Slowly he reached out and wiped a finger over Eomer's damp cheek, and then he brushed the tears against Lothiriel's lips. Leaning over her, he took Eomer's right hand and placed it over her heart, then covered Eomer's hand with his own. Finally he began to whisper soft words in a tongue Eomer did not recognise.

Eomer shivered as the air around them suddenly swirled with an icy breeze. He stared down at Lothiriel, willing her to live and desperate to feel the beat of her heart beneath his palm. His life would be empty and hollow without her by his side. His own heart would be dead even though it still pumped his blood around his veins. He needed her. Loved her. Would gladly give his own life for her.

A gasp cut through the air, and Lothiriel suddenly jerked. Her eyes fluttered opened, confusion in them as she stared up at him. "Eomer?' she croaked.

His tears were flowing again. Tears now of joy. He drew her tightly against his chest, his arms enfolding her, and his face buried in her hair. "You're safe now. Safe." It was some time before he could bring himself to believe it, but finally he looked up and gave Aragorn a tremulous smile. "Thank you."

Aragorn gave a small smile as he shrugged off the gratitude. "'Twas the strength of your love for her that bought her back, my friend."

Eomer's gaze at Lothiriel again, and he pressed his lips to her forehead, relishing the warmth of her skin. Whatever the reason she breathed, he would forever be grateful to Aragorn. And to Legolas. Memory of the elf's expert archery made him turn and seek him out. To his surprise Legolas was some distance away. Elfhelm, with Gimli seated behind him was riding towards him. Eothain rode beside them.

"Few escape when Legolas aims an arrow," Aragorn observed, as he followed the direction of Eomer's gaze.

Eomer helped Lothiriel to her feet, keeping one arm firmly wrapped around her waist. She looked pale and there were dark red weals around her neck, but other than that she seemed to be recovering speedily from her ordeal. A few moments later Eothain and Elfhelm returned, each holding one of Galwyn's arms as they dragged her lifeless body between their horses. Seeing they had Eomer's attention they let her fall face down onto the grassland. Three arrows protruded from her back. Lothiriel shivered as she stared down at the witch, but Eomer felt nothing but cold relief. He turned to Legolas. "I am indebted to you."

"She could not be allowed to escape," Legolas replied. "There is no debt owing."

"Thank you," Eomer said. He felt suddenly dizzy. It was over. At last it was really over.

Lothiriel turned towards him, wrapping her arms around him and pressing her head to his chest. For a long moment she simply held him, and in so doing gave him time to find his balance once again, to be reassured that she was indeed alive and well. When finally a long, deep healing shudder ran through him, she spoke. "Eomer, my love?"

"Yes."

"Don't we have a wedding to get to?"

He stared down at her in amazement. "You were almost killed. In fact…" He couldn't bring himself to say it, that she hadn't been breathing when he'd reached her. "The wedding can wait until you're ready."

"I'm ready now, Eomer." She smiled up at him, love and desire burning hot in her eyes.

"Are you sure?" She still seemed so pale, so fragile. He could barely imagine touching her, let alone making love to her.

In response she slipped her hand around the back of his neck and drew him down for a kiss - a deep, passionate kiss that set his body on fire. "Are you?" she asked, mischief in her eyes.

He groaned in pleasant frustration. "Ready enough to ask that Aragorn simply witness our vows here and now so I can whisk you back to the Golden Hall and our private chambers."

She laughed softly. "One last ceremony, my lord and my king. Then at last I will be able to call you husband." Standing on tiptoe, she planted a kiss on the end of his nose.

"Take me home."


	34. Two become one

**WARNING:** This chapter is **R-rated** because it follows the bride and groom into the bedroom. Please don't read if you're likely to be offended or you're under 17 years of age.

**Chapter 34 – Two become one**

The Golden Hall was bathed in late afternoon sunshine as Eomer, King of Rohan and Lothiriel, Princess of Dol Amroth stood before Aragorn, King of Gondor. Raucous cheering broke out as they finished making their pledges to one another and Eomer swept Lothiriel into his arms, kissing her with a thoroughness that met with the heartiest approval of his people, and had her father turning away in amused embarrassment.

Faramir leaned towards Prince Imrihil. "There is a Rohirric saying - the longer the kiss, the longer the marriage," he whispered.

Imrihil smiled as around him the Rohirrim continued to whoop with delight. "Clearly Eomer intends to be married to my daughter for several centuries."

When finally the newly wed King and Queen of Rohan separated, they led the way to the groaning tables of the wedding feast. As the sun disappeared below the horizon, candles were lit, giving the hall a magical glow as the Rohirrim and their guests celebrated with noisy exuberance.

Eomer savoured every moment. On a table to his left, Elfhelm and Erika were sitting in quiet contentment, soon to be a family. Eomer could not help but smile at the peace radiating from his normally gruff Marshall. After so much trouble, Elfhelm deserved his years of happiness with his new wife and their as yet unborn child. To Eomer's right sat, Aragorn and Arwen, the Gondorian queen also aglow with pregnancy. Sitting to his left were Eowyn and Faramir, clearly still desperately in love with one another. How different Eowyn looked now. It was hard to imagine her as the haunted young woman who had ridden out with the army of Rohan in search of death, and then who faced losing all in order to protect him. She glanced over, smiled happily, and then turned back to Faramir.

Ah, it was indeed a new age. One that had seen it fit to bless him with a wonderful wife. A wife that he very much wanted to be alone with. Climbing to his feet, he banged his tankard on the table until he had the attention of the raucous wedding guests. "My friends," he said. "I thank you for all your good wishes towards the Queen and myself." He could not help but grin at Lothiriel as he spoke. "We are honoured by your presence on this special day, and grateful for all the gifts you have given us - and most of all for your friendship. Now, however…" Heat rushed to his cheeks as he prepared to say the traditional words. "Now is the hour. Pledges have been spoken, and two must become one. My friends, my wife and I bid you goodnight and ask that you continue to enjoy the feast in our absence."

He held out his hand to Lothiriel. Her face was scarlet with embarrassment as she took it. The Rohirrim, well fuelled with ale, did what they always did at this stage of a wedding feast. They blessed the departing couple with cheers, hollers and bawdy remarks, the latter causing Prince Imrihil to cover his ears with his hands. "Much as I admire and respect your brother," he said to Eowyn, "There are some things a father prefers to pretend ignorance about."

At last they were alone. Eomer closed the door to the bedchamber and turned to his bride. She smiled at him, and for the first time since they'd met an air of shyness clung to her.

"Well," she said softly. "Your people left little to the imagination in their well wishes."

"I am afraid that the court of Rohan is somewhat more down to earth than that of Gondor and Dol Amroth. I'm sorry if you were…"

She crossed the room and pressed a finger to his lips. "Shush. Do not apologise. Your people are my people now. I will learn to love them every bit as much as I already love you."

He sighed with happiness. "I love you, Lothiriel of Rohan."

Her smile turned mischievous. "So you keep saying. However, I think there is a time for words, but also a time for action."

"Indeed." A shiver of anticipation raced through him, and he bent his head to kiss her. To his disappointment, she slipped free of his embrace, and moved a short distance away from him.

"Eomer," she said, her eyes lowered to the floor. "I have a confession to make."

His heart all but stopped. What could she possibly need to tell him at this point of their wedding day? He drew in a sharp breath and braced himself. Whatever it was, he would find it in his heart to forgive her. "Very well."

She looked up, holding her gaze with own. "When you were feverish, that time at Breda's farm, I…" Colour raced to her cheeks. "I saw you naked."

"Oh." He didn't quite know what to say. Didn't really understand the problem. "And was the sight of me… naked… was it somehow… unpleasant?" He felt a fool for asking, even more so when he saw the remorse on her face.

"No, no, of course. Quite the opposite," she said, the words almost tripping over one another in her haste to reassure him. She shot him a coy look. "I simply thought that you should know and that perhaps… that perhaps I should return the favour."

He opened his mouth to respond, but words failed him as he saw her hands move to the laces at the front of her dress. He dragged his eyes back up to her face and saw the mix of emotions there - uncertainty, hope, desire, mischievousness. What a woman she was. And how fortunate he was that she was his. His breath caught in his throat as she slowly began to untie the first knot, but then he realised her hands were shaking. He crossed to her and caught her hands in his own. "You seem a little nervous."

She flushed slightly, and then nodded. "No doubt you have been with many women, whereas I… I have never been with a man. Not only was I a member of the royal house of Dol Amroth, but I had a number of protective brothers and… well, you know my father." Her flush deepened. "I do not wish to disappoint you, Eomer."

He leaned forward and brushed her lips with his own. "Such a thing is impossible. It is true that, as nephew of the king, I received many offers. And, being only human, there were occasions when I accepted what was offered. But you have to understand, Lothiriel, that while I may have shared my body, I have never shared my heart with anyone but you. And I give you my most solemn oath that from this day on, both my heart and my body belongs only to you." He drew her hands away from the laces, and then wrapped the top lace around his own forefinger. "May I?" he asked, holding her gaze. She nodded and he slowly unlaced the bodice of her dress, and then gently pushed it back from her shoulders. It surrendered easily, forming a pool of silk around her feet. Beneath the dress was a sleeveless white linen shift. "You have beautiful skin," he murmured as he began to dust her bare shoulders with feather-light kisses. A shiver of pleasure rippled through her, and she caught his face in her hands, drawing his lips back to hers.

"I want you," she said huskily.

His body hummed with anticipation at her words. Swiftly he scooped her into his arms, carried her to the bed and gently laid her on the thick fur covers. He felt the heat of her gaze as he stripped down to his own undergarments, and then joined her on the bed. She reached for him immediately, but he caught her hands in his own and leaned close to nip at an ear lob. "Let me give you pleasure first," he said. "My wedding gift to you."

For a moment Lothiriel was puzzled, but then Eomer's hand brushed over her breast, his fingers gently rolled her nipple, and a spark of heat shot straight to her groin. "Oh," she said, taken completely by surprise and too stunned to feel in the least bit embarrassed as he smoothly removed her shift. He smiled and then dipped his head, engulfing her breast in the heat of his mouth while his hand slid smoothly down her body, caressing every inch until at last it reached that most private place between her legs. All ability to think ceased as her new husband took her to the peak of ecstasy, laughing with delight as her muscles spasmed with a pleasure that left her gasping for breath and clinging to him in case she might float from her body.

When finally she could find air to speak, she reached for him, kissed him tenderly and then said. "Thank you." The words seemed completely inadequate. "You must allow me to gift you in return," she said, running her hands down the smooth muscles of his chest until her fingers met with the waistband of his hose. "You are still partially clothed. I may be innocent in the ways of men but I believe our union requires you to be otherwise."

He rolled away from her, shed the offending item and then took her in his arms once again. Slowly he aroused her senses again, his mouth trailing hot kisses over her skin, his fingers slipping between her legs once more until finally he positioned himself over her. Slowly and gently he began to enter her.

"Is it alright," he asked, his voice strained with control. "I do not wish to hurt you."

"I want this," she murmured in reply, relaxing herself with a deep breath. "I want you. All of you."

She slid her hands down his back and clutched at his hips, encouraging him to go deeper. When finally they were one, she arched beneath him, and surrendered herself to him as he began to set a rhythm. To her surprise, the discomfort she'd been warned about had already faded, and she found her body beginning to tense around him. Was it possible to enjoy such pleasure again? She suddenly realised he was looking at her, his eyes dark and intense. A slight shift of his hips stole coherent thought from her. She threw her head back, her own body rising to meet the next thrust. As her muscles once again contracted into the sweetest of tensions, she saw him smile and then, with three hard thrusts he collapsed against her, his breathing ragged and his heart pounding.

For a long while they simply lay together, bodies entwined, enjoying the afterglow of their union. Eventually, though, Eomer propped himself up on one elbow and looked down at his new wife. He reached out and traced a finger gently along the red marks on her neck. She reached up and caught at his hand.

"Don't," she said. "Galwyn has no place here tonight. Or any other night."

He blew out a long breath. "I'm going to keep you safe, Lothiriel. I promise."

"And I you," she replied. "I think we have had adventure enough. Right now I am looking forward to days and days of peace and domesticity."

He chuckled at the thought. "You do know we have a kingdom to run, right?"

"Yes. And I know too that you will do such a good job one day soon your people will call you Eomer Eadig."

"Eomer the Blessed?" He dipped his head to steal a kiss from her. "I am already blessed because I have you. I love you, Lothiriel, with all my heart."

"And I you, Eomer of Rohan. Now and forever."

the end 


End file.
